Billy and the Kid
by Lilacs and Monarda
Summary: This story follows the events of Alkatraz with a slight twist. Machiavelli saves Billy. The process of using up his aura deages Machiavelli instead of aging him. kid!fic
1. Chapter 1

AN: The bolded text is a direct quote from the Enchantress and thus does not belong to me. I hope you enjoy my variation on the story.

** Machiavelli appeared and dropped to the floor beside the two Americans. Without a word, he pressed his palm to Billy's chest and his dirty-gray aura bloomed over his hand. It dripped onto the open wound like sour milk.**

** "Smells like snake," Billy mumbled, eyes unfocusing as he slumped into unconsciousness.**

** "I like snake," the Italian muttered. Desperately, Machiavelli forced his aura through his hand into Billy's wound.**

As he did, he visibly changed. Already weakened severely from attempting to wake Areop Enap, this new strain of healing Billy was draining him rapidly. But his was a curious transformation which shocked the other immortals in the room.

As he poured his aura into Billy, his features began to reform. The wrinkles in his forehead smoothed out and his grayish white hair was darkening, lengthening. Always close cropped, his hair now took on a wavy curl. His face filled out and his body likewise grew supple. The skin on his hands grew rapidly smoother and then- inexplicably- smaller. The Italian was growing younger by the minute. He was growing smaller, transforming from man to child.

"Enough," Black Hawk finally commanded. He gently pulled Machiavelli away from Billy.

**"Let me give him just a little bit more," he pleaded. "I have a little left. I can give it to him."**

"No!" the answer rang out around the room.

Machiavelli's face was flushed and his body was heaving from the effort. Black Hawk released him and he toddled back to Billy's side. He not so gently smacked Billy on the face and looked up again. "Why isn't he awake?" he questioned sadly. Nobody answered the boy. Curious as this new dilemma was, they were still tasked with waking the Old Spider and with the Karkinos scuttling around outside, they couldn't be distracted. Machiavelli sat by Billy and placed one hand on the sweaty brow of the unconscious immortal.

~MB~

Billy woke up to a throbbing pain in his stomach. During his years as an outlaw he had been nicked and shot with bullets numerous times, and those had hurt, but never like this. This was comparable with the Lotan stripping his aura from his hand the other day. Machiavelli had said it was foolish, but... Machiavelli! Billy pulled himself into an upright position, ignoring the pain in favor of finding the older immortal. He had only a vague sense of what had happened since he had received his wound but his last memories were of Machiavelli pouring his aura into the wound.

Blearily, he opened his eyes and turned his head. He suffered a body jerking shock to find a little boy next to him, watching him steadily with dark gray eyes.

He got the sense that the boy had been keeping watch over him. When the little boy saw that Billy had woken up his small eyes had brightened considerably and he touched the outlaw's face with both of his small hands. "Billy," the boy enthused. "You're awake." And he threw his arms around the slender frame of the surprised immortal.

_'A kid? Here_?' Billy thought to himself and closed his eyes briefly. _'When did a kid get here_?' He unconsciously wrapped an arm around the boy. Opening his eyes, he guessed, though he had very little experience with children, that this boy was about three or four years old. He had dark eyes and wavy dark brown hair. And he was dressed in an oversized white button down shirt and a black suit jacket. There was something strangely familiar about him, but Billy couldn't put his finger on it. There was something keenly intelligent in the boy's eyes which looked odd on such a young visage.

The boy seemed to sense and understand Billy's confusion. "It's me Billy, it's Mac-Mac- Machi," the boy stumbled over the name. "It's Niccolò. Call me Niccolò." The little boy, _no Machiavelli_, dropped his arms to his sides, but remained close to Billy.

Billy in turn, blinked in confusion. A wave of nausea threatened to overwhelm him. "Mac?" he said disbelievingly. "But how- why- Mac?" he floundered. "No, you can't possibly be..." But a movement in his peripheral vision caught his eye and moments later Perenelle Flamel kneeled in front of the pair.

"Mrs. Flamel?" he said in polite confusion.

"It's him, Billy," she said softly, gently pushing him back down. "We're alright," she continued. "Areop Enap woke up at last, and destroyed the Karkinos." She pointed to the enormous spider skittering away from them towards a few wandering unicorns. Billy followed her line of sight.

"Oh man, that's ugly," Billy gasped.

"Billy," the little boy said sternly and instantly the American immortal's face lit up.

"Mac! It is you!" he squawked with little dignity and pulled the boy into an impromptu, bone breaking hug. Just as impulsively, he kissed Machiavelli on the cheek. Billy felt rather than heard him sigh. He scrutinized Machiavelli. The Italian was olive skinned and small, almost delicate. He smiled self-consciously, revealing tiny baby teeth. "Oh, you were a cute kid, Mac," the outlaw said lovingly.

The Alchemyst came over and joined his wife gingerly on the floor. "He put a lot of his aura in you to save you," the older immortal explained. "Normally, such a huge use of one's aura would age one's body immensely. However, acts of selflessness have an opposite effect." He shrugged. "Or so the Codex says," he concluded.

"We've never actually seen it in practice," his wife added.

"Is it reversible?" Billy wondered out loud. He tenderly stroked Machiavelli's back, not realizing what he was doing.

Both the Flamels shrugged helplessly. The three adults looked down at the little boy nestled in Billy's arms. Somewhere in the middle of them talking, Machiavelli had fallen asleep. His face was turned towards the warmth of Billy's body. A tiny hand had slipped into his mouth. In the quiet brilliance of the early morning, they could hear the soft sounds of his breathing.

"Well," Billy said decisively. "If he does stay like this forever, that's fine. I'll take care of him." A brilliant smile graced his face. "I was just thinking the other day that it would be nice to have someone there to greet you at the end of the day. Maybe this is my chance."

A lull in the conversation eased its way in. Billy laid back, careful not to shift Machiavelli or wake him. Under his arms, he could feel the rise and fall of the little boy's chest. He tried counting the breaths, feeling the intake and outtake, but his mind, sluggish already from the previous pain, exertion, and finally surprise, quickly succumbed to sleep once more.

As early morning broke over the island, the Flamels left Billy and Machiavelli alone in the warden's old home to assess the damage done the previous night. The married immortals had waited for the American immortal to wake up before they left, leery that something might have survived through the night. Once they were sure that Billy was awake, Perenelle Flamel had patted him on the shoulder and promised to be back soon.

The sunlight slatted through the windows. Machiavelli slept on, but Billy kept watch. He zoned out as the minutes dragged by. There was a rapping at the door and he started. The American outlaw looked up as the Flamels reentered the building and was surprised to see them smiling at him. "Hey," he said. He licked his lips and grimaced when he tasted blood. "What's up?"

"Ah, we found somebody we thought you'd like to see," Nicholas said. He motioned to someone outside of the door. "Come on in."

Black Hawk ducked through the door. Billy's face lit up. "Black Hawk!" he shouted. He attempted to pull himself up, but three pairs of hands pushed him back down. Black Hawk squatted by his friend. Billy grabbed his hand briefly and shook it slightly. "I'm glad you're still alive," he said faintly.

"I told Machiavelli you were too stupid to die," Black Hawk laughed and embraced Billy.

"What about you?" Billy exclaimed. "We thought the Nereids had gotten you for sure."

Black Hawk settled back. "I thought they'd be waiting for me too," he acknowledged. He rubbed at the stubble on his face. "But I guess after Nereus died, they didn't feel like sticking around."

Machiavelli stirred and sat up. He looked up at Black Hawk and rubbed his back. "You're still alive then?"

"As sure as you're still puny."

Billy curled his fingers around Machiavelli's hand. "So what took you so long to get back here?" he questioned the Native American.

Black Hawk grinned and took one of the little boy's hands too. "Hey friend, have you not heard about the currents on this island?" He looked over at Perenelle. "Your friend, the ghost, he helped to guide me. You can get really turned around out there."

Perenelle pushed the hair out of her face. "I think we all owe de Ayala a debt of gratitude."

"So," Billy addressed the room. He cocked his head and gave his most winning smile. "When do we get off the island?"

"Something we'd all like to know," Nicholas muttered at his place by the door.

Black Hawk coughed. "We can go now if you want." Everyone in the room looked up. The other American immortal grinned. "Like I said, it was one hell of a current. Washed up on the shores of San Francisco." He shrugged. "Rented a boat."


	2. Chapter 2

The boat ride back to the mainland passed by fairly uneventfully. Of course, after the night the immortals had suffered through, a bomb could have blown up in the middle of their ship and none of them would have batted an eye. They made an odd group: an elderly couple, a Native American, a young man with a not quite yet closed stomach wound, and a little boy. All of them, except perhaps Black Hawk, splattered with mud, blood, and countless other substances that they didn't care to think about.

By the time they reached the shore, Billy had fallen asleep again and when they got off the boat, Nicholas and Black Hawk hefted him between them to his convertible, while Perenelle picked up Machiavelli. Entering the city, they sent Black Hawk out to find lodging as he was, surprisingly enough, the most normal looking individual within their group at the time. He set them up in a seedy motel where nobody looked at the odd group twice and headed out again to get food and clothing.

In their motel room, Nicholas settled Billy into one of the double beds. Perenelle excused herself to take a shower and Machiavelli climbed onto Billy's bed. Having finished settling Billy in, Nicholas came around the bed to Machiavelli's side. "We're allies now, aren't we Niccolò?" he asked, careful not to wake Billy.

Machiavelli nodded. "The enemy of my enemy is my friend," he said.

Nicholas patted his shoulder. "Good," he said. "I'm glad." He hesitated a moment and then suggested they get the Italian's dirty clothes off of him. Machiavelli agreed rather reluctantly, feeling as private as ever despite his younger body. Still, he had to acknowledge that he wouldn't have been able to undo the buttons on his shirt himself. His fingers seemed oddly uncoordinated, a feeling he couldn't get used to.

"How'd you get the Codex back?" he whispered to Nicholas, motioning towards the book the Alchemyst had set on the bedside table.

"The hook handed man came to us, early this morning," Nicholas explained in a quiet voice. "He gave us back the book and also gave us some energy to keep us alive."

"Oh, that's why you look better than me."

Nicholas actually snorted. "I suppose so." The Frenchman was quiet for a moment. "Strangely enough, I'm not sure I want the Codex anymore. Not after all the trouble that came from it. But," he smiled slightly, "I guess I'd better look into your condition, shouldn't I? You know, once I foolishly thought that I knew all the secrets of that book."

Machiavelli smiled too. They heard the shower turn off and Machiavelli hurriedly clambered under the covers, making sure he was almost entirely covered. Moments later, Perenelle came out with a motel bathrobe tightly tied around her. "Hello, Niccolò," she acknowledged and kissed her husband on his cheek.

"Mrs. Flamel," Machiavelli rejoined politely.

"I think I'm going to lie down now. You should clean up, Nicholas, catch some sleep."

Nicholas and Machiavelli nodded. Nicholas climbed wearily to his feet and headed to the shower. Moments later, they heard the water start. Perenelle, who still seemed terribly tired, laid down in the other double bed and soon drifted off, but Machiavelli who had slept for most of the morning was fairly awake. He climbed out again and scooted backwards on the bed until he was off the blanket. Once the blanket was free and clear, he pulled the blanket down and Billy's shirt up so that he could see Billy's wound.

"Checking out my gorgeous figure, are you?" Billy drawled unexpectedly and Machiavelli jumped guiltily. The outlaw grinned wickedly. "Yeah, I'm awake now."

"Checking out your figure anyways," he said cheekily back and Billy laughed.

"You're one to talk right now," the outlaw said with a mischievous glint in his eyes. "What are you modeling for, the Bold and the Beautiful?" He made a slight hand gesture towards the whole of Machiavelli's body. The Italian had given up on trying to cover himself properly. When they had taken him off the island they had left him his white button down shirt, but this was so ripped and dirty that Machiavelli had given up on it as soon as they had secured the hotel room.

The Italian shrugged, tinting red slightly. "You just wish you could look this good." He smiled wide when Billy laughed. He stopped smiling right away though, when Billy grimaced and pressed a down on his wound. It appeared that his body's movement from laughing had caused him some amount of pain.

Machiavelli pulled the blanket back up. "You're a good man William Bonney. I can't lose you."

"You're a good guy too Niccolò." Billy's eyes were soft and soulful. He smiled, said, "Look." Purplish red smoke spilled out of his fingertips and he pressed them to his wound, sealing it mostly shut.

"That's better," Machiavelli said excitedly. He climbed back under the covers, pressing himself close to the American's form. Billy radiated heat. For the Italian, it was a welcome change to the cold, damp air of the ocean.

"We're going to have to get you some clothes," Billy said sleepily.

"Can we get a suit?"

"No!" But Billy was laughing. "You'll outgrow it in like, a day."

"Won't," Machiavelli said stubbornly.

Billy smiled sleepily. He rubbed at the Italian's stomach with his knuckles, lulling him back into a sleepy state. "You know, Mac, when they told me I was going to work with you, I was prepared to dislike you. But you got to me. Now I can't help but love you."

~MB~

Machiavelli slept on and off for a week. Though there were times when he was keenly awake, for the most part, he seemed to require far more sleep than the other immortals did. Nicholas suggested that his body was recovering the spent aura he had lost in the past few days.

Billy, on his part, was still mostly bedridden. While the wound itself was closing more each day, he had still expelled almost the entirety of his aura. Like Machiavelli, he required a lot of rest, though not as much sleep as the toddler seemed to.

The few times Billy got out of bed were to bathe and to use the bathroom. Three days after they moved into the hotel room, he decided that Machiavelli and he had better shower, being the last ones in their group to clean themselves up. Afraid that Perenelle would nix the idea, Billy waited until she had gone out shopping with Black Hawk before he tried to get out of bed.

"What are you doing?" Nicholas asked, looking up from his puzzle.

"I want to take a shower," Billy explained. He scooped up the Italian, who was still out of it. "I figure I'll bring him along with me." He pulled at his shirt and smelt it, made a sour face. "We both smell. Since he's asleep, he won't see anything."

"Do you think you can stay standing for that long?" Nicholas asked dubiously.

Billy waved a hand. "Oh, yeah. I'm almost completely healed. And even I'm not okay with how much I smell anymore. I won't be long." He saw the doubtful expression on the Frenchman's face. "I'll leave the door unlocked just in case," he promised.

The shower worked out alright, though Machiavelli did wake up at one point. While this made it easier for Billy in some respects (he could put the Italian down), it did mean that Machiavelli saw more of Billy than the American had originally intended. Luckily, Billy wasn't self-conscious because the Italian couldn't help looking at Billy's body more than he would have had he been an adult.

Other than these 'outings' he did everything from his bed, which was fairly boring to the American immortal who was used to perpetual motion. Without much else to do, he amused himself by watching the Italian sleep. He was delighted to find out that Machiavelli, at semi regular intervals, cooed in his sleep and that he could almost begin to predict these time intervals after carefully watching him.

"What are you doing?" Black Hawk asked one afternoon, finding Billy turned on his side, contemplating the Italian.

"He's so cute when he sleeps," Billy said happily. He looked up, his face shining happily. Black Hawk gave him a haughty look, clearly unsure why his best friend was acting this way. Billy stopped smiling, neutralizing his expression. "Look, he has squishy knees," he said, by way of explanation, rubbing Machiavelli's knees with his thumb.

"I suppose so," Black Hawk said, sounding bored. "But why do you care?"

"I like kids," Billy said quietly. He carefully brushed some of the Italian's brown hair out of his eyes. "This could be my only chance to have one," he said to himself.

~MB~

"I am not wearing that," Machiavelli said flatly. He crossed his chubby arms and frowned up at Billy from where he sat on the bed.

Billy sat beside him. "It's all we have left that fits you. You grew so much this week- I think you might be a whole year bigger." He held up the yellow sweatpants enticingly. "Come on, Mac, you're a very little boy. And little boys look cute no matter what they wear."

"I won't wear it." Machiavelli edged away from the sweatpants as though they were toxic. "I will wear jeans, even t-shirts, but never sweatpants. Especially yellow ones."

The American frowned. "Mac, I hate to tell you this, but one way or another you are going to end up wearing these sweatpants or you can go naked. Now what's it going to be?" Machiavelli tilted his head, thinking about it. "Oh, come on!" Billy said impatiently. The Italian reluctantly took the sweatpants and rolled about on the bed, pulling them on. He had a hard time lifting his body off of the bed and Billy ended up pulling him up for a minute with his hand.

"Please tell me there isn't a sweatshirt to go with this," Machiavelli said, looking very disgruntled in his new sweatpants.

"There is actually, but I won't put you through that," Billy told him. He unrolled one of his t-shirts, revealing a faded Sgt. Pepper design. "It's going to be a little big, but I thought you could wear this." He helped the Italian into the shirt. It ended up falling past the Italian's knees.

"It covers most of the yellow," Machiavelli remarked, cheering up considerably. He began to head for the adjoining door to the Flamels' room where the others were waiting.

Billy threw an arm out in front of the Italian before he could go anywhere. "Are you going down looking like that?"

"Like what?" Machiavelli asked confused. Billy turned him so that he could see his reflection in the glass of the window. "Oh. My hair's a mess."

"I'll say," Billy agreed. He licked his hand and smoothed down Machiavelli's unruly hair.

"Billy! That's disgusting!" the Italian squawked. They continued into the other room, squabbling back and forth. The American's comments about Niccolò's pretty curls only made the boy blush more, especially when the other immortals looked up.

Billy scooped him up and set the Italian on his hip. "This was quite the ordeal just to go out to eat. We're all ready."

Perenelle eyed Machiavelli's outfit with some visible distaste. "You didn't dress yourself, did you Niccolò?" The Italian vehemently shook his head and the Frenchwoman looked almost accusingly at Billy. "We've got to get him some better clothes."

Billy waved a hand. "I'll bring him out tomorrow." He bounced the Italian up and down and hummed happily. "How about it, partner, you want some new duds?" Machiavelli frowned at Billy's word choice, but nodded still.


	3. Chapter 3

Though Machiavelli seemed mostly in possession of his faculties- he had attempted to pincer grip Billy when the American had hit on the motel maid- there were times where his child's body seemed to synchronize with his mind. Billy noticed that while he seemed more like his adult self in the morning, as the day wore on and his body got tired, he seemed more childlike and pliable. There were certain differences that persisted with the younger Machiavelli and the older Machiavelli that Billy had come to know.

For instance, the younger Machiavelli seemed more prone to open displays of emotion than the older version ever had. In fact, Billy suspected that the older Machiavelli took a certain amount of pride in masking his face. Truthfully, they'd only known each other a few days and under the dire circumstances they had been working under, they'd hadn't the time to play twenty questions, but Billy felt like he knew the Italian immortal fairly well. He found himself entranced with the little boy's easy laugh. It gurgled in his throat like water rushing in a brook. The little Machiavelli smiled often and was full of energy.

There was some considerable variation in the toddler's behavior at times. Whenever the Italian immortal was sleeping or had just woken up, he appeared to be less in tune with his adult faculties. This behavior was overwhelmingly endearing, the other immortals soon found out. Machiavelli, an elegant man in his adulthood, was absolutely precious as a child.

In the mornings, Machiavelli was consistently slow to wake up and sleepily affectionate. No matter which bed he ended up in the night before, he generally toddled off in whatever direction Billy was in. "Scruffy," he said every morning, rubbing Billy's face. So gradually, Billy was getting in the habit of shaving every morning. It seemed to make the toddler happy.

The younger Italian immortal slept on and off for days after getting off of the island, but once his aura was replenished, there was no keeping him down so long as the sun was up. Billy, who was getting better by the day, delighted in goofing with him. The Flamels came back into their shared motel room one day to find Machiavelli perched on Billy's toes, dancing to the music on the radio. Machiavelli shrieked every time he was dipped backwards. Neither immortal was aware of the married couple until Billy swung Machiavelli around in a wide swirl.

Machiavelli turned red and hid his face behind Billy's legs, but Billy grinned openly, displaying two slightly bucked teeth on an otherwise handsome face. The American immortal virtually shone with life, all smiles, dressed in jeans and an unbuttoned white dress shirt. Billy had never been in love before and while he faced unique circumstances which posed some obvious problems, he was enjoying spending time with the person with whom he wanted to build a history.

Machiavelli the kid was certainly more openly affectionate than Machiavelli the adult. Billy was a frequent recipient of Machiavelli's gratitude, not surprisingly, as Billy went out of his way to make the young boy smile.

~MB~

"Where are all the others?" Machiavelli asked curiously, coming awake from a nap to find only Billy in the room with him. He blinked a lot and tucked a hand into his pants, sighing with contentment. Realizing too late what he was doing, he slipped it out again and pulled the blanket up to his chin. He looked up at Billy through his long lashes.

"Black Hawk brought the Flamels out to find us a new place to live. We can't live here forever, it's too small for the five of us," Billy explained.

"Huh," Machiavelli said drowsily. He burrowed down deeper in the blankets. "I'm hungry. And I have to go to the bathroom."

Billy laughed. "That's a lot." He climbed out of his side of the bed, holding his wound. The skin over his wound had completely regenerated by this point, but being new, was incredibly tender to the touch. "Let's get you to the bathroom first."

After Machiavelli had gone about his business, Billy got both of them changed into clean clothes. Machiavelli scampered away as soon as he was undressed, causing Billy some grief. "Come on, Mac," he enticed. "Let's put some pants on you."

"Uh uh," the Italian negated, climbing into the closet. Billy could hear him giggling, but couldn't see him very well. Just one leg stuck out and when Billy tapped it, the giggling climbed an octave and the leg quickly disappeared from sight.

"Come out here," Billy called, opening the closet door on the other side. He dropped to his knees and crawled into the closet himself. "Come here," he said finding Machiavelli and scooping him up. "Oomph, you're getting heavier. Now, don't you think you'd like to put some clothes on?" he asked, holding out a pair of training pants.

"Why?"

"I don't know," Billy hedged. He pushed at his hair. "I'd never seen you in any less than a three piece suit before this and now I'm seeing, well, everything."

Machiavelli examined his reflection in the mirror covering the closet door. He laughed. "There's not much to see." The toddler spun around and around. Billy had to laugh too at the boy's antics. Machiavelli seemed really happy.

"Mac, you're taking this a lot better than I thought you would," Billy commented. He collected Machiavelli up again, setting him down on the bed. "Come on, no clothes and we can't go outside. You'll thank me for this later." The Italian stopped squirming, which made it much easier for Billy to pull on the pair of overalls he had been struggling with a moment before.

He scrawled a quick note for the others in case they came back and they set out into their neighborhood. Machiavelli busied himself with trying to see how high he could kick his feet. Billy held his hand the entire time, keeping a wary eye on the people around them.

There was a nearby park that seemed to be in relatively good condition. There, Billy bought them both a hotdog and a bag of chips, with a bottle of water that they shared. Neither of them had been out much since they had gotten off the island, meaning they were both ready to dispel the boredom of the past few days.

After they ate, Machiavelli begged Billy to let him play at the playground. It wasn't a very large area, just a few swings and a slide, but with the pent up energy he'd accumulated, it was perfect for him. "Okay," Billy finally agreed. "Want to go on the slide?"

Machiavelli looked at the tall, metal slide. "I don't think I could climb up the ladder," he said shyly. "It's too high."

"What if I went up with you?"

Machiavelli considered it. "Okay." He got halfway up with Billy right behind him before he absolutely froze. "No, I can't do it."

"Come back down then, sweetheart. It's fine." Billy plucked Machiavelli off of the ladder. "How about I just put you on the slide from the other side. You can still go down a ways." Machiavelli nodded, so Billy brought him around and set him as high as he could. Machiavelli slid down. It wasn't as fun as he thought it might be, as the metal of the slide was excruciatingly hot.

For some reason, Machiavelli got the strange sense that putting sand on the slide would cool it down. Billy stayed a few feet away from him, but let him play on his own. Machiavelli tossed handfuls of sand on the slide and watched it slide down to the bottom again. "Can you help me?" he asked Billy at one point, so Billy scooped up some handfuls and tossed them higher up on the slide.

"Why are we doing this?" he asked at one point.

Machiavelli paused. "I don't know." He tossed a couple more handfuls on the slide and slapped his hands clean. "Push me on the swings?"

"Sure."

The Italian couldn't get on the swings by himself. The best he could do was lie on his stomach and flail his legs helplessly which didn't get him very far and was fairly painful. He slid off again and held out his hands to Billy.

The American immortal scooped him up by the armpits and set him on the swing. Walking around so that he was behind Machiavelli, Billy pulled the swing back just slightly. Getting tired now, Billy sat on the ground and pushed Machiavelli, not letting him go too high.

"Want to head back, Mac?"

Machiavelli glanced at Billy. The American's face was ashen- he was obviously getting tired. "Okay," he agreed readily. He touched down to the ground again. "Thanks for playing with me," he said shyly.

"Any time, Mac. Sorry I had to cut things short."


	4. Chapter 4

Billy soon found that while Machiavelli made an absolutely adorable toddler, having a child of that age, regardless of the circumstances, could be overwhelming at times.

The Italian immortal was swayed easily by his more childish emotions, meaning that the careful mask the adult Machiavelli projected largely crumbled away when faced with ordinary, fairly non-traumatic experiences. Billy dealt with these experiences more than any of the other immortals, somehow having become the object of the Italian's implicit trust.

This was both heartwarming and at times, highly inconvenient. For instance, Billy was the one most frequently approached when Machiavelli felt embarrassed or frightened. Luckily, Black Hawk usually spent the nights at a new place they were slowly moving into which left the two of them in undisturbed harmony during the evenings.

"Billy," Machiavelli whispered. "Billy."

The American immortal sniffed loudly. Machiavelli continued to tap his face, and Billy came awake, with a sudden involuntary jerk. "Mac?" he asked, looking around blearily. He rolled over on his side so that he was facing the toddler. "What's up?"

The Italian looked totally miserable. "I had an accident," he whispered softly.

"You fell?" Billy asked, misunderstanding. He looked concerned and sat up.

Machiavelli shook his head and wrapped his arms around his legs. "No," he tried again. "I wet the bed." His eyes filled with tears.

"Oh," Billy said, finally completely awake. "Oh." He sat on the bed for a brief moment, clearly not entirely sure what to do. "I can take care of that, Mac. Don't be upset." He swung his legs off the bed and climbed heavily to his feet. He limped over to the other side of the bed.

"I'm not upset," Machiavelli mumbled, but he continued to sniffle.

Billy turned on the side light so that the room was washed in dull orange light. He helped the toddler out his wet pants, throwing them with his wet underpants in the laundry basket. Having removed the offending clothing, he collected Machiavelli up and brought him to the bathroom, where he sat the boy on the counter.

Machiavelli squirmed away from him and covered himself with his hands. "Don't squirm, Mac. I know you're uncomfortable, but I'll be quick," he admonished gently. He wet one of the face cloths with warm water and cleaned the toddler up quickly. "See? All clean," he soothed, keeping up a constant flow of conversation.

Chancing a look at Billy, the Italian relaxed slightly when he realized that the outlaw was just as uncomfortable with the situation. He still felt miserable, but resisted less, letting Billy dry him off with a big towel.

He followed the American back out into the main part of their hotel room, where Billy managed to extract another pair of pajamas from a pile on the couch. He also brought back a bag.

"What's in the bag?"

The outlaw hesitated. "They're called Pull-Ups," he explained finally. "They're training pants. I picked them up at the store today." Machiavelli stopped his sniffling long enough to give Billy a funny look, which the man ignored.

"I don't want to wear those," the Italian immortal protested earnestly. He shuddered. "What if Black Hawk or the Flamels see me in those?"

"It's nothing to be ashamed of," Billy cajoled. He held out one of the Pull-Ups which Machiavelli didn't take. The fact that it had Mickey Mouse on it only seemed to insult the diplomat further. "Besides, they don't have to know. We're both usually dressed by the time any of them come in."

Machiavelli gave in finally and took them from Billy. He looked truly disgruntled as he climbed into the pair. He covered them carefully with the pajama bottoms, though the top of the underpants stuck out a little in the back. "It feels weird," he complained.

"Yeah, but look- you can't even tell you're wearing them," Billy said. He picked Machiavelli up so that the boy could see his reflection in the mirror over the bureau.

"I guess so."

"Okay, well, one crisis averted," Billy mumbled. He tucked Machiavelli into the other bed, gathered the wet clothes from the other bed, tossed them in the basket, and climbed in next to him. "Why were you so upset?" he asked tiredly. He switched off the light, leaving them in darkness again.

"It's embarrassing," Machiavelli said dully.

"Ah, you wet the bed. It's no big deal," Billy said sleepily.

"Billy?" But the American was asleep again. Machiavelli snuggled closer, fitting him into the small space that the curve of Billy's body made, pulling one of the man's arms around his body. Billy's arms made him feel safe. He wrinkled his nose at the squishy feeling of the training pants and resolved to wake up dry every morning, in order to preserve at least some of his dignity. Sighing, he fell asleep.

~MB~

Machiavelli had been about three when they had first got off of Alkatraz. After only a week, he seemed to have undergone a year's worth of growth, so it came as no surprise to any of them when he aged again at the end of the second week. With several inches of ankle showing, the group of immortals decided they were going to have to buy him a wardrobe with growing room built in. Black Hawk and the Flamels sent Billy to buy clothing for the boy as he was most comfortable with the American and they began to shift their possessions to a remote seaside cottage they had bought to regroup in.

Thus Billy found himself in a department store, pushing Machiavelli around in a cart and getting a lot of smiles from the mothers shopping around him. Billy smiled back, but leaned close to the little boy and whispered, "Mac, I don't know what I'm doing? What do I buy?"

The little boy spread his arms wide. "How should I know?" he demanded in a similar whisper.

"Oh, come now Mac, you had kids," Billy hissed and held up a pack of underwear with Marvel superheroes on it. He squinted at the sizing chart, shrugged and then dumped a pack of underwear in every size in the cart.

The little boy actually rolled his eyes. "Yeah, in the fifteenth century. There were no Ames' back then."

Billy flashed a smile, "There are no Ames' now. Never mind Mac, I know how to handle this." He approached a pocket of mothers eyeing him. "Afternoon, ladies. I was wondering if you could help me." He grinned sheepishly. "See my wife normally does the clothing shopping and I have no clue what to do."

The group of women sprang into action immediately. One woman asked how old Billy's son was. Billy answered 'four' at the same time that Machiavelli said 'five'. Billy just patted Machiavelli on the head and shrugged as if to say "kids". If anything, the group of mothers melted a little bit more. The women showed Billy how to find clothes the right size and conversed critically about what color would look best with Machiavelli's olive skin. After Billy told the women he had two more sons just a little bit older than Mac, they started throwing in bigger sizes too. Billy waited for the estrogen cloud to subside a bit before thanking the women profusely and exiting the clothing department.

Machiavelli twisted around to look at the filled cart. "I know I authorized you to use my credit cards, Billy, but I thought you'd exercise a little control."

Billy kissed the boy on the lips, a quick peck. "How often do you go on shopping sprees, Mac? Have some fun." He got momentarily distracted. "And speaking of fun," he trailed off and changed directions. "Let's go to the toy section." He pushed Machiavelli in the direction of the back corner of the store, where a large toy section had been set up.

"Here we are," Billy said. He picked up the little boy and set him down so that he could see the toys in the aisle easier. He rubbed the boy's head. "Let's pick up some toys for you."

Machiavelli protested. "Billy, I'm not really a kid."

Billy tossed a basketball in the cart. "I know. But it took you about a week to age a year. I figured," he scratched at his face, "that if you continue to grow at this rate, it'll be a couple of months before you're an adult again." He shrugged. "You might as well have fun."

Machiavelli shrugged back. Billy didn't always make sense to him, but he figured he would humor the American. He was fond of Billy and besides, it was boring hanging around with nothing to do. He tugged at Billy's pant leg. "If I pick out some toys, can we get some books too?" he asked. Billy assented, so Machiavelli set to poking around the boys' section. Billy followed behind him, pausing to throw a Nerf gun and two foam swords in with the ball. Machiavelli critically assessed a flaming pink aisle of Barbie dolls and went down the next aisle.

Billy was looking at some books when he heard an excited shout. Machiavelli ran up to Billy and grabbed his hand. "Come on," he hollered and pulled the American into the aisle.

"Look, Billy, look." Machiavelli was unusually loud. Billy squatted next to the excited boy and put a finger to his lips. The boy quieted instantly, but pulled Billy in closer. "Look," he urged and pointed.

Before them was a display of model cars. One in particular caught Billy's eye and he knew this was what had caught Machiavelli's eye. On the shelf above Machiavelli was a 1960 dark red convertible Thunderbird. The Italian looked up at Billy and grinned. "Can we get it, Billy?" he asked hopefully. He stressed the individual syllables in Billy's name.

Billy's heart melted. He agreed easily. The American pulled the box down and let Machiavelli carry it, but picked up the boy and walked back to the cart. He stood Machiavelli up in the seat and helped him slide his feet back into the correct spots. "Want anything else, Mac?"

"No," Machiavelli said. His eyes shone. "I've got everything I want."


	5. Chapter 5

The next morning, Billy was sitting alone by the pool. He heard a loud noise coming from the motel but dismissed it until the Italian showed up by his side.

"Billy?" Machiavelli whimpered. He tugged at the man's shirt sleeve.

The outlaw looked up from his newspaper. "Mac? What's wrong kid?" He felt a wave of concern wash over him and he reached out to touch the little boy, uncertain if Machiavelli was going to let him touch him. Even though the immortal was stuck in a little boy's body, it seemed like he was unwilling to be treated as such. "What's the matter?"

"I fell," Machiavelli warbled. He blinked through his tears. "I hit my head. It hurts." Billy pulled the Italian into his lap and inspected the back of his head. There was a bruise already beginning to form there. The American winced in sympathy.

"You've got quite the goose egg forming, Mac." Billy pulled a paisley handkerchief out of his back pocket and wiped down the Italian's face. "I'm sorry, kid."

"It's okay," Machiavelli said, trying and failing to get his breathing under control. The Italian was getting progressively more upset and the fact that he was getting upset was upsetting him further. He struggled to maintain control, but lost it a little when Billy kissed him softly. "I don't know why I'm upset," he wailed.

"Shh, Mac.!" Billy hissed quickly. He looked around and softened his tone. "You're going to bring the others in here," the American soothed. He rocked the Italian in his arms. "You're upset because you're hurt. That's okay. I can understand that."

Machiavelli shamelessly turned into the American's hug. He hung on Billy's neck, feeling the warmth of the other man seep from Billy's torso into his own. The pain dulled in the back of his head and a feeling of peace settled on him. Because the other man wasn't objecting, Machiavelli decided to stay in that position. "When are we moving to the cottage?"

"This afternoon," Billy said carelessly. He hoisted the Italian up a little further on his torso, so that the Italian's forehead was resting on his shoulder. "Are you comfortable like this?"

"Uh-huh."

Billy turned the pages of the newspaper on the table in front of them. Occasionally, he would kiss the Italian's forehead. "You know, Mac, I kind of like you being little."

"Yeah?"

"Oh, yeah. I've always wanted a family." Billy gently traced a line on the boy's knee. "I always thought it would be nice to have someone love you unconditionally."

~MB~

"Okay, Mac, let's show you around," Billy said, helping Machiavelli out of the backseat of the Thunderbird. He boosted the little boy onto his shoulders and walked up onto the front porch. "It's a bit small, I'm told…"

"You weren't kidding," Machiavelli said drily as they entered the cottage. For a moment, he sounded exactly like his adult self, which sounded strange coming from his child's body.

"Ah, it's cozy," Billy laughed. He led them through the combined living room and kitchen and up the stairs. "So, we put the Flamels together obviously. And then, this room is Black Hawk's and mine. And here's yours." He opened the door to the room in the back of the cottage.

Machiavelli's room was small, but neat. A bed with a quilt was tucked under the sloped roof of the room. Billy set the boy down on the ground again. Right away, he ran over to the window. He could just barely see over the ledge. Looking back at Billy, he smiled. "We're right on the ocean."

"You like it?" Billy asked. He set the Italian's suitcase down by the closet. Machiavelli nodded. Climbing up carefully on the heat register, he could see a little more of the beach below them. "There's people walking down there." He watched them with interest.

"Want to take a walk too?"

Machiavelli spun around and dropped off of the register. "Could we take a walk?" he asked earnestly. He grabbed Billy's jeans. "Please?"

Billy stroked the top of Machiavelli's head absently. "Course. Where do you want to walk?"

"Down there!" The Italian shouted excitedly. He seemed a little surprised at his own sudden burst of enthusiasm and glanced up at the outlaw shyly. His eyes glittered with excitement however, remembering his father bringing him to see the sea a long time ago when he had actually been a little boy. It was a memory he had completely forgotten about until this moment.

Billy led him back down the staircase, keeping a tight grip on his hand the entire way down. The stairs did seem fairly steep, but Machiavelli was impatient to get out on the sands.

"My father brought me to see the ocean once when I was little," he told the American. "We went to the mare ligure, which is… the Ligurian Sea in English." For a moment he had forgotten his English.

"Yeah, sweetheart?" Billy asked. He glanced up at Billy, wishing he was a lot taller again. Because Billy hadn't say anything about it, he clung to the American's calloused hand, sometimes swinging a little. "Were you close with your father?"

"Uh huh," Machiavelli gushed enthusiastically. "I loved my papa." He picked up a shell and gave it to Billy. "Here. For you!" And he temporarily got distracted by a tidal pool.

Billy was a little surprised, not only by Machiavelli's rapidly shifting focus, but also by the sudden gift; he slipped the shell into his pocket. "Thanks," he said. "What was your father's name?" he asked, following the toddler over a large rock.

"Bernardo di Niccolò dei Machiavelli."

Billy whistled. "Long name. So your father had part of your name in his?"

"No, I had part of his name in mine," Machiavelli corrected automatically. He scooped up some of the water, letting it trickle out of his hands again. "My name is Niccolò di Bernardo dei Machiavelli. You get the second part of your name from your father when you're a boy."

Billy had to think about what he was being told. "So your father's father was also Niccolò then?" Machiavelli nodded vigorously. Billy sat down beside him, stretching his legs out. "Were you named after him?"

"It used to be customary to name your first son after his paternal grandfather, so yes. That's why my first son's name was Bernardo.

"Wouldn't every other name be the same on your family tree?"

Machiavelli shook his head, obviously happy to continue this discussion. It had been a long time since he had spoken to anybody about something from his past. He enjoyed the fact that Billy was paying attention to him and only him. "It depends on where your father is born in terms of order. My father and I were both the first sons to be born in our families, but your second son is named after the maternal grandfather, and any of your other children after that can be named anything…"


	6. Chapter 6

At first Machiavelli played with the toys to humor Billy, but after a while he found that there was something oddly satisfying in cocking shut the Nerf gun and shooting a distant target, such as Nicholas Flamel who sat across from him at the dinner table. Nicholas took his shooting surprisingly well, perhaps because the Italian immortal's shot had hit Black Hawk instead. After that incident, Billy had promised to teach Machiavelli how to shoot and aim the gun properly, a skill the Italian surprisingly lacked considering his age and experiences. But then again Machiavelli had always been content to provide the plans for attack and wait, inconspicuous, in the background for others to initiate such plans.

The difficulty in using the Nerf gun appeared to be a loss of ammunition. Within a day of Billy and Machiavelli's shopping trip, the foam bullets were either lost, damaged, or, in some cases, hidden by the other immortals. Billy shrugged and said that this was always the case with guns and that they'd have to buy more bullets next time they were in town.

The loss of the Nerf gun's use didn't bother the Italian too much at any rate. The Italian immortal was particularly fond of his model car, which was quickly becoming a favorite of his. The young boy liked to push the car around the cottage, often holding it with both of his hands and becoming so intent on pushing the car that he ran right into objects: for instance, the walls, Billy, the couch, Billy, the bathtub and Billy were some of the frequent obstacles the Italian hit. Machiavelli couldn't deny that he was having fun.

~MB~

"Billy," Machiavelli tugged at the American's jeans. "Billy," he tried again.

The Kid had been sleeping on the front porch of the seaside cottage they were staying at. He had fallen asleep watching the little boy push around his red model car. Billy had bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. For an old Italian diplomat, Machiavelli seemed perfectly content to play with his toy.

Now he blinked blearily. He groaned, rubbing the small of his back. He cocked his eyebrow at Machiavelli. "What's up, Mac?" he asked.

The little boy grinned hopefully at Billy. "Want to play a game?"

"Sure," the outlaw agreed easily. "What do you want to play?"

The Italian immortal smiled but scuffed his toe on the ground. He tilted his head and said, "Want to play cowboy?" He smiled sheepishly at Billy and Billy laughed.

"All right. We can be cowboys."

Machiavelli's smile widened. He patted Billy's face and said, "Cowboy. Only one," he corrected. He continued, "I'll be the cowboy."

"I don't get to be the cowboy?" Billy asked bewildered. "I don't know," the American said slowly, "I'm always the cowboy. What am I going to be if I'm not the cowboy?"

Machiavelli positively beamed. "The horse."

Billy initially was going to protest, but he came up with a better plan. "All right," he agreed. "Any good cowboy does need to know how to ride a horse." He lifted Machiavelli onto his shoulders and jumped down the steps. Machiavelli clung to his head and giggled. "Of course," he continued. "Sometimes the horse can be difficult." And he bucked his shoulders.

Machiavelli shrieked as he was jiggled and dipped. Billy ran like a madman down the shoreline, sometimes cantering, sometimes prancing. Once, Billy gave a fairly undignified neigh and skipped sideways. Machiavelli's giggles grew louder when Billy attempted to run into the ocean and he tugged firmly on the American's left ear, urging him as it was to move away from the water. Billy finally sank to the ground, worn out. The Italian slipped off his back and embraced Billy from behind. He stuck his head next to the outlaw's and gave him a sloppy open mouthed kiss on his cheek.

Billy yawned. All the roughhousing had taken the wind out of him. He elaborately laid backwards, effectively pinning the boy to the ground. "Oh yeah, Mac," he muttered. "This is the life."

Machiavelli crawled out from beneath Billy's lanky form. He laid in the beach grass beside the outlaw. "Was it fun being an outlaw, Billy?"

The American rubbed his stomach thoughtfully. "Sometimes," he smiled at the boy. "Not the last couple of years so much, but when the getting was good, it was a lot of fun."

Machiavelli turned over on his side so that he was facing Billy. "Can you teach me how to have fun Billy?"


	7. Chapter 7

Sometimes after dinnertime, the immortals would leave behind their cottage to walk along the beach. They enjoyed the waves breaking on the shore, though they were all careful not to actually enter the water, perhaps remembering the Lotan and Nereids. The Flamels picked their way along carefully, whereas Billy, Black Hawk and Machiavelli plunged ahead, the little boy in particular running up and down the dunes, now splashing in the tides pools, now climbing along the slippery rocks. Every once in a while Billy would call to him and Machiavelli came scurrying back to him.

One Saturday night, the immortals decided to have a cookout on the beach. None of them really enjoyed the food being immortal, except perhaps Machiavelli who ate with gusto, nor did they need the food after the initial aura regeneration, but it was a social occasion for them to get together at the end of the day. On this evening in particular, Billy interrupted Machiavelli before he was done eating. As the tides began to change, Billy grabbed Machiavelli's hand and said "Here's how we're going to have fun." And they ran after the waves as they went out and then turned and ran away from the waves as they came back in. Billy never let Machiavelli get too close to the water, but it was great fun to run on the wet sand.

This was all well and good until Machiavelli decided to take a flying leap into a sand pile. All of the immortals were a bit surprised to see the Italian make such an impulsive and rather ridiculous movement, but none looked more surprised than Machiavelli himself who now had sand between his toes, in his mouth, and in areas he didn't want to think about. He looked a bit disgruntled when Billy began chuckling and the other immortals caught on to his infectious laughter. The curly haired youth pouted a bit, shaking himself off and toddling over to the bigger group. Billy followed closely after him.

Machiavelli made to sit down again on the bench where the others were sitting, but Billy grabbed him from behind before he got settled. He hefted the Italian up in his arms, and backed away from picnic bench. He whispered in the boy's ear, "Want to fly, Mac?" The little boy grinned and nodded.

"Okay," Billy said cheerfully. He set the boy down so that he could get a better grip on him and scooped him up again. He dipped the Italian backwards so that Machiavelli was almost upside down and then just as quickly pulled him upright. He swung around in a circle so that the Italian felt like he was swooping through the air. Every once in a while, Billy would set him down, a bit dizzy himself. Machiavelli stumbled a little, but usually clamored for more. Billy tried swinging him in the other direction but found that he wasn't as capable of pivoting in the other direction.

Black Hawk eventually took pity on the younger American and took over his role. Black Hawk was particularly good at throwing the boy about ten feet into the air and catching him again. Billy weaved his way back to the picnic table where the Flamels sat and grinned happily at the couple. He touched Perenelle on her shoulder as he passed her and sat beside Nicholas. Nicholas smiled indulgently at Billy and moved over to make room. They watched Machiavelli and Black Hawk racing on the beach. The sun descended slowly upon the horizon line.

~MB~

Machiavelli was so much dead weight in Billy's arms, being half asleep and covered with wet sand. Since the Italian was mostly out of it, Billy had relieved him of his clothing at the back porch of the cottage and Perenelle Flamel was now shaking them out as he carried the boy over to the upstairs bathroom. The American was glad that the boy was mostly unconscious because he had a feeling that if Machiavelli was more in control of his senses, he would be resistant to getting a bath and that was what Billy intended to do at the moment.

Even almost asleep, Billy was surprised that Machiavelli offered little protest against Billy's actions. Instead, Machiavelli seemed intent upon beating the sand out from between his toes. Billy filled the tub with no incident from the young immortal. The American pulled off his own t-shirt and wiped his brow off before picking Machiavelli up and setting him in the tub. He kept an arm behind Machiavelli who leaned heavily upon him. Billy handed him a face cloth to clean his privates off with and set to gently scrubbing the sand out of Machiavelli's hair. Once he had lathered up Machiavelli's hair, he took the face cloth back and covered the Italian's eyes while he poured water over his head, getting the suds out. Billy knocked the sand off of his shoulders and rubbed water beneath his armpits, the back of his knees, and behind his ears. He bit the inside of his cheek, trying not to smile at how Machiavelli had gotten sand all over the place.

Now that the toddler was completely clean and half unconscious, Billy decided he better pull Machiavelli out of the tub before he fell asleep entirely. Billy pulled the plug in the tub with one hand and grabbed a towel off the rack. He quickly patted Machiavelli dry and roughly toweled his hair off. He pulled the towel tight around Machiavelli and carried him to the room Machiavelli had to himself at the back of the house.

Here, he laid the boy down on the bed before he did anything else. Crossing the room, he rifled through Machiavelli's closet looking for a pair of pajamas. He settled for a long sleep shirt with Spiderman on it and a pair of underwear. He managed to get the briefs on the boy without a struggle, but couldn't seem to figure out how to get the shirt on the boy who was now completely out of it and heavy with sleep. Finally, he figured it didn't matter much and tossed the shirt into the chair at the bottom of the bed and pulled the covers over Machiavelli.

Making sure that nobody else was around, he kissed Machiavelli softly on the forehead, ghosting his lips over the boy's forehead, and left the room, turning at the doorway to look back at the boy. Machiavelli had turned on his side, his thumb somehow finding its way into his mouth. Billy turned off the bedroom light with a soft click, but left the hall light on. Billy smiled in the soft lighting.


	8. Chapter 8

"You would have been a good father, you know" a voice said behind Billy. The outlaw startled slightly, reflexively putting his hands up. He looked over his shoulder to see Nicholas Flamel and relaxed noticeably. "Désolé," the Frenchman apologized.

Billy smiled. "You think so?" he asked, brushing past his moment of fear. Not waiting for an answer he continued talking. "You look good, Nick. Healthier," he added. A cool breeze came off of the ocean. He glanced back at Machiavelli, watching the boy snuggle deeper into the blankets. Nicholas watched Machiavelli for a moment as well, then turned and began down the stairs. Billy followed him down. Nicholas sat beside his wife on the couch. "You really think so?" Billy asked again and this time waited for an answer.

Nicholas assented. Perenelle glanced at him questioningly and Nicholas hastened to explain, "I was just telling Billy he would have made a good father. He's good with Machiavelli." Perenelle nodded in agreement and even Black Hawk, sitting by the fire, gave a nod that showed he agreed with the Flamels.

"Oh, I don't think so," Billy broke the spell. The other immortals looked at him, waiting for an explanation. Billy swept a hand through his hair. "I was a father once," he confessed slowly. "Allegedly, at least." He grinned ruefully at the others.

"I read that in a book," Nicholas acknowledged. "Three daughters. Were they actually your children? There was no substantial evidence to support that."

Billy shifted a bit uncomfortably in his seat. He wouldn't look over at Perenelle Flamel. "I'm not really sure. Isn't that awful? But I was quite the lady's man back then. So I expect they were mine. Three daughters that I know of, three different women. I sent money when I could. Felt bad. I never knew my father either." He paused. "The two of you never had children?"

There was something guarded in Perenelle's face. "No, never."

Billy looked over at Black Hawk. "I know you had kids," he told his friend.

"Five," Black Hawk acknowledged, growing a touch somber. "It's nice to have a kid around again, even if Machiavelli isn't really a child."

"I like having Machiavelli like this," Billy said slowly. "I never really thought about it before all this happened, but I've missed having a family, someone to care about you. When I had my kids, I was too busy running away from the law to stay with them, see them grow. And then I became immortal," he continued. "And it didn't seem fair to have a wife or kids then."

The room was quiet.

"I like having Mac here," Billy repeated. "But... I fell in love with Machiavelli the man. I love the boy, but I miss the man. Is that bad?" his voice rose a little at the end.

Perenelle leaned forward and touched his arm lightly. "No Billy, that's just being honest with yourself."

Billy looked away and into the fire for a moment. He let out a shaky breath. "Anyways," Billy concluded. "I figure this will only last a little while. He's already getting bigger, you know. Soon he'll be my Mac again. I think I should just enjoy watching him grow up. I never got to see any of my girls grow up." He leaned back.

"You didn't keep track of them after you became immortal?" Black Hawk asked carefully. Something in his face suggested he already knew why.

Billy eased out of his chair. "Nah, they didn't live that long. Died of diphtheria, consumption." He smiled but it lacked his normal happy-go-lucky expression. "Anyways, I think I'll go check on the kid." He headed upstairs, but poked his head back down. "I mean, I'm the Kid, but I'm going to check on Machiavelli." He cocked his head to the side. "Maybe we'll go on a trip, see the sights." He smiled again, this smile genuine in nature. His eyes shone fever bright with excitement. The other immortals watched him climb the steps, skipping every other step.

"He's a good guy," Black Hawk said. "Bit scatterbrained, but the best man I've met in a long time."

~MB~

Upstairs, Billy sat beside Machiavelli on the bed. The Italian's eyes were fluttering under their lids and he idly wondered what the immortal dreamed about. _Something good_, he hoped. Getting up, he pulled the blankets around the boy snugly. "I love you," he whispered soft in the boy's ear.

Mumbling, the little boy rolled over. He snuggled in deeper to the covers and sighed. Squeezing one of his knees, Billy got to his feet. He climbed down the stairs on the other end of the cottage, and let himself out, softly closing the door so they wouldn't know he had left. He decided to walk down by the water, sorting out his emotions as he went.

Turning right, he walked down the coastline a mile. The darkness settled around him like a cloak, but he didn't mind. Gazing out at the harbor, he thought of his friends who had died, the women he had loved, and his mother. Sometimes, his life seemed a little lonely. Coming to a halt, he stuck his hands in his pockets and sighed. The prospect of never having a child or a spouse weighed him down.


	9. Chapter 9

Early the next morning, Billy shook Machiavelli awake. "What's up?" The kid asked groggily and groaned in the early morning light. He rolled away from Billy and snuggled deeper into the blankets. Billy rolled him back over.

"We're going on a trip," Billy explained.

Machiavelli checked the clock on the bedside table. It was 5:32. "The others agreed to this?" Machiavelli questioned dubiously. Billy shook his head and explained that the two of them were going alone. Machiavelli groaned again, but clambered out of bed before he thought better of it.

"Good man," Billy clapped him on the shoulder and assessed him critically. He shook his head. "You shot up again, Mac."

Machiavelli looked around. It was true. Yesterday when he climbed out of bed his feet hadn't touched the ground. Now he could sit easily on the edge of the bed with his feet flat on the floor. He realized with a jolt that he had gone through a similar growth spurt nearly five hundred years ago. The change hadn't seemed so drastic back then because Florentines in the 15th century dressed in fairly loose clothing.

Now however, the change was much more noticeable, particularly the elastic digging into him. He slipped out of the underwear, rubbing at the angry red marks on his skin. "We should put me in looser clothing at night. That's when I seem to do all my growing," he told the American.

"Hmm," was the answer he got back from the man. Billy was rooting through his bureau. The Kid was muttering to himself, but the Italian couldn't make out what he was saying. Every once in a while, he would hold up a package of underwear, look at the size, and shake his head. He tossed the offending package on the ground beside him. Soon, he had a ring of clothing around him.

"What's the matter? You can't find any in my size?" he stepped beside Billy.

"Not in the right size yet," Billy responded distractedly. He was now elbow deep in underwear. Machiavelli watched Billy's expression light up when he at last found the right size. He wondered how Billy could live his life so openly. He had once been known to say 'Everyone sees who you appear to be, few experience who you really are.' It just didn't seem to apply to Billy. Billy seemed happy, through and through. He wandered over to his bed.

He blinked when something soft and cotton hit him in the head. Billy had slingshotted a pair of Ninja Turtles underpants at him. Machiavelli climbed into them, mumbling how there was no record of Raphael liking pizza.

Billy tossed a pair of shorts behind him. Machiavelli supposed that meant they were for him. The Kid was still rooting through his bureau. "Ah," Machiavelli heard him say. "Found it."

"Found what?" Machiavelli asked suspiciously.

"The best shirt ever!" Billy said excitedly. The outlaw unfurled his prize. On the shirt he held out was a copy of the famous tintype of him and under it was western style writing which spelled out 'Billy's Kid.'

Machiavelli sighed but held out his hand. Billy grinned and handed it to him. The Italian grumbled a bit, but pulled the shirt over his head.

Billy pecked him on the cheek and pulled him into a one armed hug. "Yeah, Mac," Billy smiled. "You're one good looking kid."

Machiavelli blushed. To change the conversation's direction, he asked, "Where are we going?"

"Don't know." Billy's smile never dimmed. He caught Machiavelli's incredulous look. He shrugged and motioned to Machiavelli's suitcase. "I figured you'd pick. You're paying after all. Now help me pack."

"You didn't even pack!"

Billy stood again, hands on his slender hips. "Well if I had packed, we would have had to repack it anyways. Yesterday, I had a five year old. You went and grew again."

Machiavelli shrugged. "Parenting's hard," he quipped.

"So how about Disney World?" Billy suggested.

Machiavelli pulled a face. "Poked, posed, and demeaned by men in costumes with big heads? Not a chance," he said decisively. He threw a stack of clothes in the suitcase and glanced sideways at Billy. A smiled furled at the corners of his mouth. "I know where I want to go Billy."

"Where?"

Machiavelli wouldn't give it away that easily. "You might not want to go," he cautioned. "See, Black Hawk was telling me last night about this museum in New Mexico." Billy made a face, but kept packing. Machiavelli pressed on. "They do tours on some cheap bum named William H. Bonney."

Billy dropped the suitcase on his foot and jumped a bit. The Italian smiled angelically up at him. "Guess it could be cool", the American said reluctantly, rubbing his foot.


	10. Chapter 10

Even with their early start, Billy and Machiavelli weren't on the road until it was nearly nine. By the time they climbed into the American's Thunderbird, the other immortals had awoken and were there to see them off. Perenelle actually gave Machiavelli a hug before they left. The tiny Italian flushed happily and clambered into the front seat of the convertible.

Billy climbed over the driver's side door and slid into his own seat. "I'm not sure when we'll be back actually," he called over the group.

Black Hawk leaned onto the driver's door. The convertible actually tilted slightly under the large immortals bulk. "And where are you actually going?" Billy fiddled with the controls of the radio and mumbled under his breath. Machiavelli ignored his obvious signs of discomfort and told Black Hawk very loudly where they were going. The Native American immortal shouted with laughter. Billy actually grinned despite himself.

"It was his idea, not mine," the American defended himself. "I wanted to go someplace fun. Now get off of my car." Black Hawk backed away from the car, still grinning. Billy chuffed at him before turning the ignition over. The American immortal then turned the car around, waved to the others and put his convertible into full throttle.

Billy grinned over at Machiavelli. "You know Mac, when you're a bit bigger I can teach you how to drive. For real this time." He waggled his eyebrows at the boy. Machiavelli hesitated only a moment. In his mind's eye, he tried to picture himself driving the convertible. The idea was ludicrous. He grinned up at Billy and stuck his head out the window to see where they were going. The wind whipped around his head; Billy groaned and pulled him back in. He kept his arm behind Machiavelli's seat as they sped down the highway.

~MB~

The air in New Mexico was hot and dry. Machiavelli was used to the heat, but not the dryness. Even before lunch, they had stopped twice to buy the boy a power drink. The European immortal was beginning to think this wasn't the best idea he had ever had. Still Billy seemed fairly happy speeding through the hot countryside, singing along with the radio. Machiavelli wished he felt as free to sing along as Billy did, but he didn't dare try.

"Was it always this dry Billy?" Machiavelli rasped about seven hours into their journey.

Billy nodded. "The heat's why we moved here- my family and I. Mama had brought us down from New York to Kansas, but then she got sick with consumption and the doctors said her best shot was to move to a dry climate." He gestured to the barren landscape around them. It was kind of beautiful in a wild way.

"Did it help her?" Machiavelli's eyes were wide and innocent. He waited anxiously for the American's reply.

"For a while," Billy acknowledged. He glanced over at the little boy and noted his discomfiture. "Listen Mac, we're supposed to be having fun. Both of our mothers are dead now- why worry about it? Let's have fun." He pointed to a sign on the side of the road. "Want to go to the amusement park? We're going to have to stop at some point anyways, the trip takes seventeen hours to get to Fort Sumner."

Machiavelli tilted his head. Normally, he would have rejected the idea. The thought of some of the rides looming ahead made him feel a bit queasy. But Machiavelli reminded himself that he was trying to imbibe some of the fun that Billy naturally possessed. "Sure," he agreed. "But no scary rides. My stomach gets sick sometimes."

Billy was already in the process of taking the exit. "We'll have fun," he said happily. "I won't put you on anything you don't want to go on." He slowed considerably as they went around a large loop and took a right at the end of the exit. "You point out the signs to me as they come, okay kid?"

Machiavelli nodded vigorously. He liked feeling useful to the American, even if at the back of his mind, he knew this was something that Billy could have easily done on his own. "There!" he called, pointing to a sign that nearly blended in with the brush.

Billy coasted in to the parking lot of the park and turned off the car. He grabbed the back of Machiavelli's shirt before the Italian could exit the car. "Maybe you shouldn't call me Billy in public. I feel like people will think I'm a pervert if we have no obvious family ties," Billy cautioned.

Machiavelli tilted his head. "Although, you could just be my older cousin or baby sitter or something."

Billy shook his head. "In my experience Mac, most people tend to think the worst of you. I'd like to ride the Ferris wheel, not get strung up by an angry mob."

"All right, what do you want me to call you?"

Billy shushed him slightly and spoke very softly. Machiavelli quieted down but still looked at the American expectantly. Billy shrugged. "Oh, I don't care, whatever makes you comfortable." He appraised Machiavelli thoughtfully. "I think I could be seen as your daddy with our current age differences. And I'll give you a pet name too."

Machiavelli opened his mouth to say something but by that point, they had made it to the ticket stand. "Two tickets," Billy told the ticket agent. "One for me and one for my son." He put his hands on the Italian's shoulders. Machiavelli leaned back so that his weight was pressing into Billy. The ticket agent didn't even look at them as he rang up the bill of sale. The two immortals pushed through the turnstiles.

"What are we going to ride first?" Billy asked his Italian counterpart.

Machiavelli looked to his left and then his right. People were milling all around them. "Can we ride that?" he asked shyly, pointing to the Tilt-a-Whirl. They got in line. It was lucky that Machiavelli had shot up or he wouldn't have made the height requirement. As it was, the Italian was only an inch above what was needed.

Because it was the middle of a Friday, the lines were minimal and the two immortals got on in their first go. "Pick a good one," Billy told him and Machiavelli shouted "Okay!" and dashed off to find the spiniest car he could find. They got into the seventh car and the attendant came by to strap them. At first, their car spun very little, but after going over the first bump the car began to rotate faster and faster. Machiavelli laughed so hard, the ride took his breath away. It was a rush.

After the Tilt-a-Whirl, the two immortals rode the bumper cars, the swings, the Tilt-a-Whirl again, and finally, the Ferris wheel. Billy bought them both an ice cream at one of the stalls on the far end and they walked around looking at the carnival games.

Following the ice creams, Billy put Machiavelli on the carousel, but stayed on the ground himself. Machiavelli was riding a gray horse that went up and down. During the first rotation, he hung on tightly to the pole, but he soon overcame his fear. The second time he came around, he waved and yelled "Hi Daddy!" Billy felt his heart drop into his stomach. Billy waved back, staring at the Italian.

"They're really sweet at this age, aren't they?" the woman next to Billy said to him.

"Oh yeah, he's my sweetheart," Billy acknowledged. "Which one is yours?" He asked the woman and she pointed to two girls, side by side, who were slightly behind where Machiavelli was. Billy found it surprisingly easy to talk to this woman, the two of them swapping stories about their 'children'. In the middle of telling her about their cowboy game, the ride stopped and Machiavelli came running over.

"Did you see me, Daddy? I rode the horse. He was a much better horse than you were," the boy enthused. Billy lifted him up in his arms. The two waved goodbye to Billy's new found friend and her two daughters.

Billy let Machiavelli ride on a kiddie roller coaster shaped like a caterpillar, then paid the extra fee to let Machiavelli jump around in a bounce house. The Italian had seemed to make friends with a little boy that Billy judged to be a similar age as him. Watching Machiavelli play, he could only imagine what the two of them were talking about. He decided he would ask the European immortal later on, if he remembered.

The final ride the two went on was the Scrambler, a ride where cars pivoted around on three individual arms. Billy allowed Machiavelli to climb in first, so that Billy would be on the outside when the momentum started to push them to the edges. As the ride began to spin faster, the immortals felt their stomachs drop. Machiavelli slid towards Billy as the momentum kicked in. He was thankful that he wasn't where Billy was sitting or he would have been flattened for certain. Machiavelli was sorry when it stopped.

As the two got off, Billy stumbled around a little, feeling a bit queasier than Machiavelli seemed to be. Machiavelli grabbed his hand as they left the amusement park. They made their way to Billy's Thunderbird. By the time they reached the car, Billy was feeling better and Machiavelli was drooping with sleepiness. Billy drove them to a nearby motel and ordered a pizza for supper. Machiavelli was asleep an hour later.


	11. Chapter 11

After another early morning departure and several hours of driving, the two immortals found themselves in front of the Billy the Kid Museum in Fort Sumner, New Mexico. They signed up for the tour at the front desk, Billy setting the Italian on the desk so that he could be seen. The woman working at the desk stared at Billy just a moment longer than was usual or polite. Billy shifted a bit under her gaze, but smiled at her nonetheless.

"Do I know you?" she asked in what Machiavelli felt was an unnecessarily accusatory voice.

"No, ma'am. Don't think so. Never been in this part of the country before," Billy said, covering his nervousness with bravado. Mac thought Billy had a lot of gall to say that with a blownup copy of the famous ferrotype on the wall behind her. "My baby boy, he loves cowboys. We came quite a way to see your museum."

She was, apparently, not impressed by his explanation but handed over two ticket stubs and indicated that they should wait for the tour to start. Billy collected Machiavelli in his arms and stood with his back to the lobby wall, lovingly rocking the little boy in his arms. A contented sigh escaped the Italian's lips, unbidden, and the Kid huffed a laugh. "Going to put you on the ground now, honey, so you don't fall asleep before the tour starts."

"Won't fall asleep," Machiavelli protested. But he leaned against the other immortal's thin frame, burying his head in Billy's abdomen.

Soon, the two immortals were joined by two older women, a fat man wearing sandals and knee length socks, a married couple, and a young mother with three boys a little younger than Machiavelli. Billy grinned happily at the youngest boy who was wearing red cowboy boots and a bandanna tied around his neck. "Nice boots," he said tapping the kid on the head as they moved aside. The boy looked at Billy's boots with wide eyes. Machiavelli picked up on this interaction and wrapped his arms around Billy's waist, effectively claiming the outlaw as his. Billy obviously didn't mind the additional affection. He hugged the Italian to him, his fingers carding through the Italian's brown locks. The tour started shortly after this unspoken interaction.

~MB~

"I can't believe you convinced me to go along with this," Billy muttered in Machiavelli's ear an hour later. He was carrying Machiavelli so that he could see over the adults' heads.

"What's the matter? You're not having fun?" Machiavelli whispered back.

Billy shrugged. "Wouldn't you find a tour of your life a bit dull? I lived through this already." He shifted the Italian slightly, easing him onto his other arm. The tiny tactician wrapped one arm around Billy's neck for safety.

The tour moved away from the reconstruction of the original Silver City jail cell that had held Billy the Kid nearly a hundred and fifty years before. Machiavelli patted his shoulder. "I liked the story about you climbing up the fireplace to escape jail. Did you really do that?" Billy nodded, and was about to speak when the tour stopped again. The outlaw looked slightly affronted, which made the Italian giggle in response.

They had stopped in front of a large blown up copy of the famous tintype. Machiavelli shushed Billy so that he could hear the tour guide speak. Billy listened in too, but looked vaguely bored with the whole experience.

"This is the only verified image of Billy the Kid in known existence," the tour guide informed the group.

"Good looking guy, huh Mac?" Billy whispered.

The tour guided continued to blather on. "Even if you could ignore those big buck teeth, it's hard not to notice how one of the outlaw's ears sticks out more than the other." Billy grimaced at her. He pulled at his ear.

"Notice the dull expression on his face," Machiavelli quipped. Billy pinched him, but he just giggled.

"If we were to go by this picture, it would be safe to say that Billy the Kid wasn't the most attractive of men," the tour guide sank lower in Billy's opinion. "He was short, only about five foot eight or nine, his eyes seemed unfocused, and he dressed sloppily." Billy snorted. The tour guide went on, unfazed. "But actually most accounts from people who met him in person have said that this was a bad picture of him. Most of those who knew him found him quite attractive, especially the ladies," the tour guide emphasized the last point especially, winking at the adults in the group.

"Well that's more like it." Billy stood a little taller.

The tour guide looked once more at the picture. She got the last say in the matter. "Yes, Billy Bonney's only unattractive feature was his big buck teeth, which had the unfortunate effect of making him look like a deranged squirrel." All the children laughed at that one. She continued. "Bonney was attractive and loveable, but had huge buck teeth."

That was too much for both the immortals. Machiavelli giggled uncontrollably and Billy pulled him to the back of the group. The Italian stuffed a fist into his mouth and tried to compose himself. "Yes, yes, very funny," Billy mumbled.

The tour continued down the museum, the guide apparently through with berating Billy's appearance for the moment. They turned the corner.

"Oh, man," Billy exclaimed. He pushed to the front of the group, pulling the European immortal with him. "How'd you get that?" he asked the tour guide, pointing to his Winchester rifle hanging on the wall. "Where'd you find it?" he mumbled.

The tour guide gave him a funny look. Billy had startled her out of her routine and it was clear that she didn't enjoy the fact. "We bought it at auction ages ago." She turned the rest of the group, her tour guide instincts kicking back in. "As you saw from Billy's tintype, the young outlaw was rarely without his rifle, this rifle. It was with him at Fort Sumner in..."

Machiavelli tugged Billy back into the group.

~MB~

"Where are we staying?" Machiavelli asked over dinner. Billy had brought them to a diner down the road. The Italian had managed to coat his fingers and face with buffalo sauce from his chicken fingers and was now shoveling mashed potatoes in his mouth.

"I'll tell you where we're not staying," Billy said firmly, wiping at Machiavelli's face with a wet nap. Machiavelli squirmed under the attention and the Kid had to grab his chin to hold his face steady. "We're not staying at Billy's Bunkhouse. The sign's insulting." He pointed across the street to a gross caricature of Billy in a nightgown, looking for all the world, exactly the way their tour guide had described him.

"I like that picture," Machiavelli mumbled around a mouth full of potatoes. He swallowed with some difficulty. "I was thinking of putting it my villa in Italy."

Billy squinted at the sign. "I wonder if I can steal it." One of the waitresses passing by gave him a startled look. He smiled charmingly at her. Machiavelli too, gave her his most winning grin. She smiled back and went into the kitchen. Both immortals dropped their grins. Billy continued on as if nothing had been said, "I don't need sleep, so I'll probably drive through the night up to a cabin I own in Montana. We'll stay there for a couple of days, maybe more. If you really like it, we can stay the summer. Sound good?"

Machiavelli hmmed happily. "Billy, am I going to be cold in the car?"

The outlaw took a few bills out of his billfold and dropped it on the table, half covering them with his drink. "No, baby, I'll put my coat over you."

"Good. Carry me?"

"Mac, we parked ten feet away." Billy pointed out their car, the only one in the lot.

"Please?"

The Kid couldn't say no to him and Machiavelli knew it. "Okay, honey." He settled the Italian immortal on his hip. "I'll carry you down the long, incredibly long path to our car." He smiled at the boy's giggles and waved to their waitress as they left. Rocking Machiavelli, he sung Springsteen songs under his breath as he settled the sleepy boy into the car and turned out onto the highway. Before long, the Italian was asleep.


	12. Chapter 12

They got to the cabin after it was dark, so Machiavelli wasn't sure what the outside of the building looked like. It was roomy on the inside though, from what he could see from looking in the windows. He climbed up on the porch after Billy, following so closely that when Billy stopped to unlock the door, he smacked into him. "Sorry," he apologized, rubbing his nose.

"Well, here we are," Billy said, dropping the bags on the ground. He sneezed. "Ah, dusty."

Machiavelli looked around, letting his eyes adjust. Directly in front of them was a steep staircase leading to a second floor. He was a little surprised that there was a second floor at all; most cabins seemed to have one level. To his right was what looked like a mud room, leading into a hallway that doubled as a pantry. To his left was a living room. The TV in the corner seemed out of place, he noted. At the very back of the cabin was what must have been the kitchen. He could make out the ghostly outline of a table. He looked up at Billy, who was leaned against the stair's handrails, watching him. "I like it in here," he said, smiling.

"Good," Billy grinned back. "This is where I sometimes spend my summers."

"Is that why you have a TV?" Machiavelli asked, entering the living room area. He pulled off a sheet covering one of the couches. Billy nodded. He turned on a lamp by the windows so they could really see the room. "Is it all set up?"

"Sure is," Billy drawled. "We could watch a movie if you want. Got a lot of them," he said, indicating a series of shelves by the window. Machiavelli slipped around the furniture and began to work his way through the shelves, pulling out a few possibilities. Finally, he grabbed the one of his choosing. "What did you find?" Billy asked, taking it from him. He looked up sharply. Machiavelli nodded happily.

"Our first night in a cabin in the woods and you want to watch The Shining?" Billy asked incredulously. He turned on another lamp behind the couch and then set about the room, pulling the shades down in the window.

"You don't want to, Billy? What are you, scared?" Machiavelli asked, his eyes glinting with mischief. He bounced on the couch. Small puffs of dust came off of the couch and he sneezed. He jumped off of the couch again and came to stand before the American immortal. "Don't worry, Billy, I'll keep you safe."

Billy shook his head. Putting his hands on his hips, he sized up the Italian. "Don't you think it's going to scare you, Mac? You're just a little boy."

Machiavelli shook his head. "I love The Shining," he said. His eyes glowed. "I've seen it at least a dozen times. It's a great psychological thriller. See, that's not scary," he commented, turning on the movie. The opening scenes came on. "It's just a couple of elevators and chairs," he said. "Nothing to worry about."

Billy shrugged. "I suppose we'll play it by ear. It's just too bad we don't have popcorn." He settled down on the couch next to the Italian. He turned off the lights as the movie began.

~MB~

Nearly two hours later, Billy switched the light back on. It was a touch difficult with Machiavelli clinging to his side, but he managed. He turned off the movie with a click and tossed the remote onto the coffee table. It landed with a loud clatter than made the Italian cry out. Billy instantly felt guilty. There was a moment of silence which the outlaw eventually broke.

"You're shaking, Mac," Billy said, wrapping his arms around the boy. "I told you it wasn't a good idea to watch that movie. Are you going to be able to sleep tonight, sweetheart?" He rubbed at the boy's back.

Machiavelli slowly let go of Billy. He shifted back onto his side of the couch and tried not to hug his legs to his chest, though instinct was telling him that this was good idea. "I'll be fine," he said shakily. "It just seemed scarier than it usually does." He patted his chest, feeling his heart thump loudly. He took a deep breath in and let it out again. "I'm okay now."

Billy didn't look like he believed the Italian, but he let it go for the moment. The young immortal fastened the front and back doors and checked all of the windows on the first floor. Machiavelli listened to the other immortal putter around the cabin. "Okay," he said at last. He held his arms up. He waited. Finally, he looked over at Billy. "You may put me to bed now."

Billy laughed and put his hands on his hips. "What's wrong with your legs?" The outlaw didn't stop what he was doing, just continued to clean up the room.

Machiavelli pouted a bit. He was just about to drop his arms when Billy gave in. The American came over, picked him up under the armpits, and hefted him up. Machiavelli wrapped his legs around Billy's waist. "Okay, Mac, we'll put you to bed now," Billy told him, grabbing the boy's suitcase from its place by the back door. The outlaw took the stairs in his usual fashion, two at a time. Entering the Italian's room, Billy shifted him over to one hip and pulled the blankets down with his free hand. He dropped Machiavelli somewhat unceremoniously into his bed. The Italian shifted upwards slightly. The Kid then pulled the blanket up to Machiavelli's chin and tucked him in tightly.

"Could you tell me a story, Billy?" Machiavelli asked. The boy's eyes were on Billy's face, imploring him to stay a while longer. The thought of being alone in this strange place scared him more than he would like to admit.

"Well, I'm not very good at telling stories-"

"-that's okay," Machiavelli pleaded desperately.

Billy smiled and pulled a book from the front pouch in Machiavelli's suitcase. "I'm not very good at telling stories, so I got a book for you from the store before we left. I guess I saw you coming." He handed the boy a slim book. "The woman at the store helped me pick it out," he said shyly, letting the Italian look the book over. The front cover had a cartoon drawing of a man and a stegosaurus in a hot air balloon. Script on the basket of the balloon spelled out the title 'Fortunately, The Milk'.

Machiavelli scooted over in the bed so that there was more room. "Get in with me, Billy," he implored. He patted the space beside him.

"Sure." The Kid settled in beside Machiavelli so that they could both see the illustrations. It was a funny, fast paced book which made the boy giggle and peek at the next page before Billy could flip to it. Within an hour, they had finished the book.

"I liked that book," Machiavelli said sleepily. "It was silly."

Billy struggled out of bed. He helped shift the kid back towards the center of the bed. "Want the light on?" he asked the Italian. Machiavelli resolutely shook his head. "Okay." Billy kissed him lightly on the nose. "See you in the morning."

~MB~

"Billy?"

"Hmm?"

"Billy, please wake up," Machiavelli pleaded. He tapped the American roughly on the face and Billy awoke with a start.

"Mac?" Billy sounded confused. He sat up and switched on the light on his bedside table. The sudden wash of light revealed a trembling Machiavelli. "What's the matter?" The American checked his alarm clock. It was a couple of hours later than when he had put the boy to bed.

"Can I sleep with you tonight, Billy?" Machiavelli begged. He sounded scared. "I keep hearing things outside my window."

Billy opened up his blankets and Machiavelli gratefully climbed in. "I thought that movie was a bad idea," Billy mumbled into the Italian's hair. He threw an arm around Machiavelli. "Shh, Mac, there's no need to cry."

"I'm not crying," the Italian immortal mumbled, pressing himself close the warmth of the American's body. "I'm not scared either, I just…" He couldn't find the right words to defend himself. "I'm not crying," he repeated firmly.

"It's okay," Billy interrupted. "I understand." He didn't say anything else, just let the Italian snuggle close to him. Once Machiavelli's trembling had stopped, Billy turned out the light. He lightly stroked the boy's side and kept up a constant soft murmur. "You're safe now, baby. Nothing's going to harm you."

Machiavelli felt much safer. Billy exuded confidence, warmth, and aftershave. "Sorry, Billy," he mumbled. Nestling into his side, the Italian fell back to sleep.

Billy stayed awake long after Machiavelli fell back asleep. Inexplicably, he felt tendrils of fear grow in his stomach. In the dim light of the moon, the outlaw could just make out the small delicate features of the Italian's face and he tried to memorize each feature, imprinting it firmly in his mind's eye. As guilty as it made him feel, he knew that he had allowed the Italian to get scared so that he could comfort him in the end; it made him feel needed. But he also knew that Machiavelli was growing up and fast. Soon Mac wouldn't need him like this anymore and Billy would be alone again. The thought chilled him to the bone.


	13. Chapter 13

"Let's go into town, Mac," Billy said the next morning. "I need to get some supplies and then we can get you some books. I saw a shop when we drove through yesterday.

Machiavelli looked up from where he was pushing his car around. "I didn't see any bookstores," he said. He stood up and patted the dust off of his jeans. "I'd like to go," he said thoughtfully. He followed the American down the steps. "Can I pick out my own books?"

"Sure," Billy agreed amiably. "I might pick out some books for me too. Though I think you should pick kid's books. Match your mind. Then maybe this afternoon we can have an adventure."

Machiavelli was going to protest getting children's books, but got distracted by the last thing Billy had said. 'What kind of adventure?" Machiavelli swiveled to look at Billy, but the American just mysteriously shook his head and refused to say any more on the matter.

~MB~

They stopped first in a general store at the end of Main Street. Machiavelli liked the look of the shop instantly. It was a high storefront, painted a turquoise green and it had big display windows crammed with an odd assortment of interesting knick knacks. Before Billy had even finished parking, Machiavelli was craning out of the window and made note of a blue china set, a huge rocking horse, a display of watches and penknives, and several neat rows of handmade jams. An old silver sword hung inexplicably at the top of the display case.

Billy appraised the fading gold lettering of the shop sign as they approached the general store. He pulled Machiavelli to his side and quietly said in his ear, "Listen Mac, I've been in this part of the country before. People here don't always take kindly to strangers. Best to be on good behavior, all right?"

Machiavelli nodded. "Of course, Daddy," he said loudly. A pair of women passing them on the sidewalk, smiled at the European. The two immortals heard one of them say "look at his beautiful curls. Isn't he precious?" Machiavelli grinned.

"I won't be too long in here anyways."

"And then we'll get me some books," Machiavelli said happily, skipping ahead of Billy to open the door. He held it open for an older man and then followed Billy in obediently staying by his side, even though he longed to look in the back corner where all the toys were.

"Howdy," Billy greeted the man behind the counter, who had been looking at the little boy suspiciously. The man's surly look disappeared when he saw Billy and by the way they greeted each other, Machiavelli knew that they had met before. "How are you Patrick?" he addressed the man and pushed the European immortal forward a little.

"Look at you, coming by here every few years or so with your 'how are you's'," the man scolded Billy, but smiled nonetheless. "And who's this?" he said looking at Machiavelli who felt uncomfortable suddenly being the center of attention between the two men.

"Ah. Patrick, I'd like you to meet my son Nick. I just adopted him." Billy wrapped an arm around Machiavelli's shoulders. He patted Machiavelli on the shoulder. "You don't have to listen to us, sweetheart. Go ahead and look around."

Machiavelli grinned and headed for the back of the store. He could hear Billy's husky tone from across the room, fading as he moved farther away. The last thing he heard him saying to the storekeeper was "Well, you know it gets lonely, living by yourself Pat..." He looked around the toy section with wide eyes and poked his head around the corner to see Billy. The American had finished his conversation and was now gathering food. Machiavelli ran towards him. "Hey kid," Billy said. "See anything you liked?" The Italian nodded.

Finally, Billy finished up his shopping and followed the boy back to the toy section. Here, Billy threw in some toys for Machiavelli. He got a set of checkers, a couple of puzzles, and a game called Rush Hour. Machiavelli threw a couple of things he had seen and they went back to the front of the shop where Pat was reading the newspaper. Billy promised they'd stop in again before they left, and having paid for their supplies, put it all in the trunk and continued up Main Street to the bookstore.

A bell tinkled when they walked into the bookstore. Machiavelli's eyes lit up. Grabbing Billy's hand, he dragged the American to the back of the store where there was hardly anybody in the children's section. Holding onto his hand, he tugged on Billy and when Billy squatted down beside him, he told him a low voice. "Books used to be much more expensive, you know. My father worked for a whole season, copying down indices, so that he could pay for the newest book put out by Livy."

"One book?" Billy squawked. Machiavelli shushed him.

"One book," the Italian agreed. But I used it extensively when I wrote the Livy Discourses."

"Well, your father must have really loved books," Billy settled back.

Machiavelli nodded. "He did. And I did too."

Billy smiled. The edges of his eyes crinkled. Conspiratorially, he told Machiavelli, "I loved books too when I was a kid. Still do, as a matter of fact. Sometimes I think that if I had been born in a different place or time, I could have been quite smart." He began to make a stack of children's books for the boy.

Machiavelli wrapped his arms around Billy's neck. "You are smart, Billy."

Billy gave him a kiss. "Well, a smarter man anyways. Listen, you can pick out some books for yourself. I'm going to get some for me.

"Okay," Machiavelli said distractedly. He had found a whole section of Roald Dahl books. He was entranced by the sheer volume of books around him.

~MB~

An hour later, Billy and Machiavelli climbed back into the car. "Hey Mac," Billy poked him in the side. "Look what I found." He pulled a book out of the bag in the back seat and handed it to him. The European immortal turned it over and got an electric shock, finding a picture of himself on the cover.

He squinted suspiciously at the outlaw. "Is this payback for the museum?" Billy laughed.

"Come on, angel. We'll put some lunch in you and then we can start our adventure."


	14. Chapter 14

"Billy, I don't know about this," Machiavelli whimpered. He tugged experimentally on the strap of his helmet. "Have you ever done this before?"

"Sure," Billy said, pulling at the straps on the boy's life vest. "I used to do this all the time before you were born."

"Yeah, I doubt that," Machiavelli muttered. He looked up at the sign by the loading dock. He mouthed the words to himself, "White water rafting."

"Don't worry so much, Niccolò. I swear to you that we're both going to have fun." Billy's eyes were understanding. He pulled the boy closer to the docking station and pointed to the raft they would soon be climbing on. "See over there? That's our guide. I already talked to him and we're going to put you in the middle of the raft. No danger of you falling out. I'll be right beside you." He flashed a smile. "Besides, we're going on the South River trail. It's the easiest ride. Remember, we're going on an adventure."

A whistle sounded and all the other people in the area began moving towards the docking port. Machiavelli grabbed onto Billy's hands. Billy let go only once, to climb onto the raft and then held out his hands to guide the boy into place. Machiavelli swallowed. "An adventure," he said softly to himself.

~MB~

Like so many other things he had experienced lately, the Italian found that the initial fear was far outweighed by the fun he experienced after. He looked over at Billy happily. Billy was drenched to the skin, having fallen in the river twice already. He had come to the conclusion that the outlaw had no shame, grinning widely each time and climbing back into the raft.

Machiavelli screamed a little as they went over another patch of rapids, but nobody heard him with all the sounds of the rushing water around them. The water poured in from all directions, splashing up and twisting like letters in a never ending sentence. The raft they were on crested a particularly high rapid and swiftly dropped again, leaving all of the passengers with the feeling that their stomach was still dropping long after they leveled again.

The Italian immortal squinted in the mist and spray of the river. The people on the outside of the raft paddled to the left and the group swung around a river bend. He was very disappointed to see they had reached the other loading dock.

Billy climbed out of the raft after Machiavelli. Reaching back, he helped pull two women from their section of the boat onto the dock. Machiavelli tugged impatiently on Billy's shorts. "Daddy, can we do it again?"

"We were on the river for three hours." The American swung him up in the air and pulled him into a tight hug. "Another time, I promise, sweetheart. We should get back have dinner."

"Okay," Machiavelli agreed reluctantly. "But remember, you promised."

"I'll remember. I keep my promises."

~MB~

Machiavelli puzzled over his Rush Hour game while Billy prepared dinner. "Did you have any siblings, Billy?" he asked, pushing the cars around.

Billy glanced over at him. "I had a brother Joe. We called him Josie when we were little." He began setting the table in front of the Italian, pushing the game away to make room. Machiavelli let him, focusing his attention instead on the outlaw.

"I had two sisters and two brothers," he told Billy. He spooned some carrots and mashed potatoes on his plate." I was the middle child. But I think my father liked me best. We remained close friends my entire life," he added.

"Oh yeah?" Billy sat down beside Machiavelli. He tilted his head. "I think my mama loved us both pretty equally. But she always called me her baby Henry, even though Josie was much younger."

Machiavelli nodded. "She must have loved you, Billy."

"Naturally. I am pretty lovable."

"So, what ever happened to Josie?" Machiavelli wanted to know.

Billy thought for a moment. Machiavelli instantly wished he hadn't asked- of course, Billy's brother must be dead by now. But Billy chose to answer the question. "After my mama died, my step father put us in separate foster homes. He didn't want to stay around with her gone and he didn't want to take us with him. A couple of years later, I started getting in trouble with the law and had to run."

"So you never saw him again?" Machiavelli's eyes were wide.

"I saw him once more before I was 'executed.' He nearly shot me."

Machiavelli dropped his fork on the floor. "What? He shot you!"

"Nearly. I came back to visit him before going into hiding. He thought I was a horse thief and was aiming to shoot me on the spot." The American picked up Machiavelli's fork and tossed it in the sink, got him a new one. He shrugged. "After that, I never saw him again. But I imagine he became a respectable man. We were always so different, he was serious and straight forward. And I got in trouble all over the place."

Machiavelli went back to eating. "That's sad, Billy."

Billy shrugged again. "That's the price of immortality. Lucky for us, we have each other."


	15. Chapter 15

Billy came down the next morning to find a morose Machiavelli pressed up against the window, watching the rain pour down. The water fell from the heavens in thick sheets, although that could possibly be an illusion conjured the branches of the trees which stretched above their remote cabin.

"Good thing we put the car under the carport, huh Mac?" Billy patted the Italian's head.

"Yeah."

Billy fell haphazardly into the arm chair by the window. "I can't help but notice you seem a bit down, sweets," he observed gently.

Machiavelli couldn't help but whine. "We're going to be stuck inside all day." He blinked, not accustomed to hearing his voice sound like that.

Billy pulled a face thinking. "Not necessarily," he said at last. "It's good weather to run around in the rain."

"Run around in the rain?"

"You know, Mac, sometimes I feel like I'm talking to a mirror. Quit repeating everything I say back to me. I know what I said." He looked out the window. "You never played in the rain, as a kid?" he asked suddenly. "Hmm. It didn't rain much back in New Mexico, but when it did Josie and I spent hours out there."

"No," Machiavelli said surprised. "We're weren't a very affluent branch of the family, but we had our dignity to preserve." He paused, then asked hesitantly, "Won't we get dirty, Billy?"

Billy was already pulling off his boots. "That's the fun of it. Come out with me, Mac. Everyone should play in the rain once in their life," he begged.

Machiavelli hesitated a moment longer before he toed off his shoes and followed the outlaw out in the rain. He jumped to one side the moment his feet touched bare ground. For summer, it was shockingly cold, as well as wet, squishy, and muddy. Billy ran away from him and the front porch into the rain and held his arms out, his face turned upward to the sky above. Machiavelli squelched his way through the mud to stand by his side.

Unexpectedly, the American grabbed him under the armpits and swung him around in a circle. He lost his footing and they both crashed down into the mud.

Machiavelli held up a handful of mud thoughtfully, then decisively flung it at the American, who quickly retaliated. Soon, the two were engaged in a mud flinging war, though the rain washed away any traces of evidence.

~MB~

By late afternoon, the two immortals were drenched to the skin and quite chilled. Billy finally prevailed upon Machiavelli to come in, quipping Machiavelli's own catchphrase 'immortal, not invulnerable'. Billy pulled one of his patterned bandanas out of his coat and used it to wipe the Italian's face dry before limping (the mud war had turned nasty) into the living room to build up a fire.

Machiavelli proceeded up the stairs to shower and change, but paused halfway up to look over at Billy, who stood before the fire, his clothes clinging to his skin. The Italian shook his head a bit and climbed the rest of the way up. By the time he was out of the shower, the outlaw had changed into flannel pants and a faded t-shirt, and was stretched out on the couch, which he had obviously pulled closer to the fire. The European grimaced a fraction, seeing Billy reading the Machiavelli biography.

Climbing onto the other end of the couch, he asked curiously "What's that book saying about me now?"

Billy squinted. "It's talking about dragging some dead guy's body through the streets of Florence," he marveled disbelievingly.

"Oh, Jacopo Pazzi," Machiavelli recognized what Billy was talking about instantly. "He was political opponent of the Medici family, executed for killing one of the princes. His body was dug up several times and eventually stripped naked by some village children and dragged through the streets by the hangman's noose he had been buried with." He said all of this matter-of-factly, as if it was a common occurrence.

"And I thought life was tough in the West," the American mumbled.

"Anyways, Billy, put that book away. It makes me all self-conscious when you read that in front of me."

Billy looked up again. "Oh, sure, Mac." He set the book aside. "Want me to read you a book, Mac? I've got something here... somewhere..." He pawed through a whole stack of books and finally pulled out a copy of Treasure Island that looked like an original copy. He looked almost shyly at Machiavelli. "What do you think, old man?"

Machiavelli nodded happily and climbed into Billy's lap. Billy shifted slightly and opened the book. In a strong, clear voice, he read out "Squire Trelawney, Dr. Livesey, and the rest of these gentlemen having asked me to write down the whole particulars about Treasure Island, from the beginning to the end..."


	16. Chapter 16

The sun shone through Billy's window waking him up from a deep sleep. He rolled over lazily and glanced at alarm clock on his bedside table. The red neon letters showed that it was nearly half past ten. The American outlaw shot up, vaguely annoyed that he had slept so long. He tromped downstairs to find Machiavelli working his way through Treasure Island.

"Why'd you let me sleep so long, Mac?" he called to the boy, sticking his head out the window to look up at the sky. Machiavelli didn't answer, having been sucked back into the book. Turning around the outlaw noticed that his Italian companion had grown again last night. He crept up on Machiavelli, deciding to ham it up a bit.

At the last moment, Machiavelli heard the American behind him but before he could say or do anything, Billy grabbed up the boy and tossed him in the air. Cradling him in his arms, he pretended to cry a little. "My baby's growing up," he joked, his face buried in the front of Machiavelli's shirt.

"Put me down," Machiavelli feigned annoyance, but Billy could see him smiling. Billy dropped him back onto the couch. The Italian immortal picked up Treasure Island again. "It's easier to read by myself now," he told the American, "but still not as easy as it should be." He wrinkled his brow in confusion.

Billy leaned on the back of the couch. "It's probably your child's brain fighting with your adult's mind."

"I suppose so," Machiavelli acknowledged. He put the book aside. "What are we going to do today?"

Billy shrugged, heading into the kitchen. "Want to go to the playground?" Machiavelli heard him shout. "There's an old wooden one down the road. I'll push you on the swings," he enticed, coming back into the room with an apple.

Machiavelli was about to answer, but got briefly distracted by the way Billy ate his apple. Somehow, the outlaw managed to fit half of the apple in his mouth with each bite. Three bites later, he had finished the apple. "Your stomach's going to think you forgot how to chew," he told the American. "What are you doing?" he queried, watching Billy pack a basket.

"We're going to the park. I'm packing a basket."

"Didn't I have a choice in this just a minute ago?"

"Yes, but then I realized we have a whole refrigerator full of food we need to use up, so we're going to have a birthday party in the park and use it all up." He pulled on his cowboy boots.

"How economical," Machiavelli quipped. But he shoved his feet in his sneakers. "Billy, before we go to the park, can we get me a new pair of shoes? These ones are getting awfully tight." He shifted his feet around.

"Course," Billy grabbed up the basket and slung it in the back seat. The two immortals climbed into the car and Billy turned the engine over with a loud roar. Soon they were racing down the roadway, Machiavelli enjoying the swooping feeling when Billy let the car coast down the hill. It felt almost like riding the rapids again. The two coasted into town, Billy gliding easily into a spot on Main Street. The Italian envied Billy his ease with the car. The last time Machiavelli had rode a car, he had driven it straight into the Italian Riviera and had since lost his desire to drive. Still, Billy made it look fun, he thought as they walked down to the shoe shop.

They turned into the shop. Billy asked the girl behind the counter if she could fit his son for a pair of shoes while he ran an errand. With his good looks and easy charms, he got the woman to agree with minimal effort. Bidding Machiavelli to behave, he went next door to buy a 'birthday present' for the Italian.


	17. Chapter 17

"Like my new shoes, Billy?" Machiavelli asked as they drove over to the playground. He swung his feet back and forth. "They light up when I walk," he told him excitedly.

Billy glanced at his shoes before turning his attention back on the road. "They look good, Mac. You'll be the talk of the town."

Machiavelli held his hands up in the air, feeling the wind slip through his fingers. It felt like water running into his hands.

"That looks like fun," Billy said. "I think I'll do it too." And he raised his hands above him. He laughed at the scared expression on Machiavelli's face. "Relax Mac. We're on a flat, straight portion of the road. There's no danger involved. But this is our turn." And he spun the wheel to the right. Stopping the car, he walked around the car and opened Machiavelli's door. "Here you are, sir." He bowed deeply.

Machiavelli giggled and climbed out. Walking into the park, he noticed a boy, smaller than him, swinging at the very end of the swing set. Something in the boy's face seemed pinched, as if he was tired or sad or something. The Italian noticed the boy was looking at him and Billy, but when the boy saw him looking back, he quickly looked away. Machiavelli thought his behavior was odd, but put the thought aside when Billy pointed out the zip line at the far end of the playground.

He trotted behind Billy, turned around to look at his footprints in the sand and consequently tripping over the wing of a large wooden airplane. He looked appreciatively at the craftsmanship of the plane, but gave it up as too young for him. "How'd you find this place?" he asked the American, ducking under a jungle gym.

"The playground?" Billy asked, pulling him onto a huge tire turned on its side at the end of the zip line. He walked about fifteen feet down to grab the rope the Italian was going to be hanging onto. Machiavelli shook his head.

"No, the town," he called to Billy who pulled the rope towards him.

"Oh, that," Billy said. He shrugged. "I helped found it in 1912. Stayed here for a while." He said this all very nonchalantly and held out the rope.

The Italian pulled himself up on it, resting his feet on the knot at the end of the rope.

"Ready?" Billy yelled. "One...two...three... go!" He heaved the rope. Machiavelli swung down forty feet, hit the end of the line, swung parallel to the ground, and then came back about halfway. Billy had followed him down and now pulled him back to the end of the zip line. "Want to go again?" he asked and when Machiavelli nodded, he swung the line out and snapped it down the line. This time Machiavelli jumped down after the line came back around.

"Whoa," he said, stumbling a little. "That was fast."

"Was it fun?" Billy queried. The European nodded, cross-eyed. "Come on, let's see what else there is." He led the boy over to the main wooden structure which was built like a large ship, complete with bridges, steps, and slides.

"Billy, you see that boy over there on the swings?" Machiavelli asked, climbing up a ladder.

Billy didn't bother looking. "The one who's been staring at us since we got here? Yeah, I've been keeping an eye on him."

"What do you think his story is? Do you think he's been abused?" Machiavelli climbed up the jungle gym. He got about halfway up and froze, apparently too afraid to go up higher or down lower. Billy held out his hands and Machiavelli jumped into his arms.

"I don't know. Something seems to be up. But I don't know that we should investigate- it would draw attention on us." He rubbed his head. "You could try to make friends with him, if you're really that curious."

Machiavelli cocked his head, then nodded. "Something just doesn't seem right with him. Somebody should look out for him."

"Okay, sweets, but how about for now, we just go on the swings?" The Italian took off. "Race you," he called over his shoulder. Billy took off after him, shouting.

Naturally, Machiavelli won. He pulled himself up on the swing. Billy was about the settle beside him on the next swing over, but was stopped by the Italian. "Remember you said you'd push me?"

"Sure, sure." Billy got up and stood behind him. He pulled him back and let him go. The second time he came back, the American gave him a hearty push forward. "Want a push?" he asked the kid next to them. The kid nodded slightly. "Okay, tell me when you want me to stop." Soon both boys were flying. "How are you doing, Nicky?"

"Fine," Machiavelli yelled, leaning back.

"Good. I'm going to get the basket and my book." Billy gave the other boy one more push and left the two boys together. "I'll be over in the gazebo when you want to eat," he called back to them.

~MB~

Machiavelli brought over the boy to the picnic table at lunchtime. The boy introduced himself as John. Machiavelli knew that Billy noticed how John scarfed down half of the food. The American subtly pushed more than one serving the boy's way.

"So, where do you live John?" Billy asked him.

John pointed to the north. "The gray house," he said. He looked curious. "Nick says you live in that old cabin on the side of the mountain? I've never seen anybody there before."

Billy nodded. "It's been in my family since this town was founded. I come up every once in a while, check up on the place."

"This is my first time up here," Machiavelli chimed in. He looked up at Billy, his forehead wrinkled. "How did you fit a cake in this basket?" he asked curiously.

"Why do you have a cake?" John interrupted shyly.

"It's his birthday," Billy explained, pulling a cake out of the basket. He cut it up and put a big piece in front of both of the boys. "I've got a present for you too, M- Nick. It's here when you want it." He tapped at a small present.

"You didn't have to do that," Machiavelli scolded but reached for the box nonetheless. He smiled when he opened it. The box contained a pendant on a necklace. Written in fine script were the words 'Tu sei l'amore della mia vita'. His throat felt suddenly dry, tight. He looked up at the American, wanting to say something to convey his emotions properly, but all he could do was ask, "Could you put it on me?"

~MB~

Machiavelli came down the stairs in the middle of the night to find Billy watching an old rerun of what turned out to be I Love Lucy. He rubbed at his eyes. "Why are you awake at this hour?" he asked the outlaw.

"I wasn't tired," Billy told him. "Besides, I'm the adult. I can stay up as late as I want."

Machiavelli poked him in the side. "I'm older than you."

"But I look older." Billy laughed at Bill Frawley's line. "Come on," he beckoned to the Italian, "Why don't you watch it with me for a little bit?"

"Sure." Machiavelli flipped over the back of the couch. He pushed Billy's knees off the couch and took their spot. Billy pulled his feet back up on the couch and draped his long legs over the boy's lap.


	18. Chapter 18

Machiavelli climbed on the hamper in the bathroom, watching Billy shave. "Why, in this day and age, would you shave with a straight razor?" he asked the American.

"It's what I learned to shave with," Billy mumbled, jutting his chin out. "Anyways, it's not like I have to do it a lot. Once a month or so, just so I know I still have a chin."

"I like you better clean shaven. You should do it more often," the Italian told him.

"You really want me to?" Billy frowned at his reflection. "It makes me look even younger than I am."

"You look fine to me," Machiavelli told him. He continued, "I was lucky, I never had much hair. My son Lodovico took after my wife's father. He'd shave in the morning and have a beard by the afternoon."

Billy laughed. He wetted down his face and washed off the rest of the lather. "Come here, Mac, you've got something on your face."

"I don't see anything." Machiavelli dropped off of the hamper and climbed onto the stool to look at his reflection in the mirror. He turned to tell that he didn't see anything and got a face full of lather. Billy smiled at him, dabbed the shaving cream on to fully cover his face, then whisked it away with the straight razor. Machiavelli stayed perfectly still, feeling Billy expertly handle the razor.

When he had cleared all the lather away from the boy's face, Billy leaned in and tenderly kissed him on the cheek. "There," the American said. "Now we're both clean shaven."

~MB~

"Are we going to the park again today?" Billy asked Machiavelli.

The Italian nodded. "I told John we were coming back."

"Have you found out what's up with him yet?" Billy called from the kitchen. "He acted like he hadn't ate in months yesterday."

Machiavelli played with the pendant around his neck. "I asked him where his parents were. He said his mother was at work. He didn't mention his father. I get the feeling he's not around him."

The American handed him the basket. "Well I packed extra food for him. Since you've got a friend, I'm probably going to spend the time reading."

"Are you still reading that biography on me?" Machiavelli asked the outlaw, somewhat grumpily. Billy nodded. The two immortals got into the car. "Learn anything interesting yet?"

"It's talking about your father a lot right now. Bernardo. Didn't you name one of your kids that too?" He glanced sideways at the Italian. "It says you had a great relationship with your father. That must have been nice."

Machiavelli touched the pendant again. "We did." He smiled fondly, remembering. He looked over at the American, wanting to ask him about his father, but didn't dare bring it up. Billy parked the car a moment later and Machiavelli stepped out, figuring that he had lost the moment.

The two separated after entering the playground. Machiavelli ran over to John who was waiting at the top of the boat structure. Billy set off in the direction of the gazebo, presumably to read some more of his book. Machiavelli was sure that he should be finished it sooner rather than later, considering the speed he had seen the American read at.

~MB~

Billy was just finishing his book when he felt his cell phone buzz. Rolling over on his back, he fished the phone out of his pocket and looked at the caller ID. He grinned, recognizing the number as belonging to Black Hawk. He flipped it open and held it to his ear. "I was beginning to think you guys had forgotten about us," he scolded by way of greeting. He grinned at the response from the Native American immortal.

Hanging up a moment later, he checked his watch and decided he'd better grab the boys if they were ever going to eat. Looking around the playground, he wondered where the Italian had gone to and hoped he hadn't managed to hang himself or something to the effect. He spied the boys, kneeling behind a copse of trees.

Initially, he considered calling out to the boys, but then quickly came up with another plan. Instead of calling out though, he decided he was going to sneak up on the two boys, which would serve two functions: first, he would see how rusty he was at being detected and two, he remembered his early curiosity about what Machiavelli could possibly talk about with other children.

He padded through the sand, his footsteps soft and deliberate. He dodged from the ship structure to a telephone booth. Had there been any other parents there that day, he undoubtedly would have looked like a psycho or a pervert, but as it was, the day was cool and breezy and they were the only ones there. He made it to the other side of the trees without, he was pretty sure, any detection on the part of the children. Here, he settled down on the grass and shamelessly eavesdropped.

He caught the even timber of Machiavelli's voice in midsentence: "...he's been really nice to me, but sometimes I feel guilty thinking about my real father and how much he loved me. I kind of feel like I'm betraying him somehow."

"Do you think he's trying to take your father's place?" Billy was taken aback. He hadn't considered anything of this sort, and suddenly felt that eavesdropping hadn't been a good idea at all. He strained to hear Machiavelli's reply.

"No, I mean, that's the difficult part. I know that Billy wouldn't do something like that, so I feel worse that I love him, cause sometimes I feel like I love him more than my own father and my father's dead, so he's not here to defend himself." There was a pause. "I don't really think about these things very much. Things are nice how they are. Every day is special. But I feel like I'm going to mess it up somehow."

John's voice was raspy, like he had been crying. "You're lucky you've had two fathers who love you. My father could never stand me. I think that's why he went away.

Billy decided he didn't want to hear any more of this. He felt funny, like he had barged in on something delicate and broken it to pieces. Only he hadn't seen any of it coming. He crept away and doubled around the structure once before calling out the boy's names, calling them to lunch.

~MB~

"John thinks we have a weird relationship."

"Why?" Billy tilted his head. "We have a great relationship."

"He heard me call you Billy. He thought that was odd. I told him that you adopted me." He looked over at Billy. "You think that's an acceptable story?"

"Sure," Billy asserted. "We just have to remember to stick with whatever we tell him or we're cooked." He paused. "Do you think we have a weird relationship?"

Machiavelli shook his head, then nodded.

"Well, that clears that up," Billy's rare sarcasm had come to the surface and Machiavelli bit back a laugh. "Thanks for settling the score."

Machiavelli tried to explain. "It must look a bit weird from the perspective of a normal human. You don't work and in a month or so when children everywhere are going to school, I assume I won't be. We spend all of our time together and never with people our own age." He traced quotation marks in the air around the words 'our own age.'

"I suppose." Billy sat beside Machiavelli on the couch. "Then again, most people our own age are dust by now. So that kind of throws a wrench in the works. But while we're on the topic of people our own age, the other immortals are coming up to stay with us for a while. They'll be up in a couple of days."

"That's good," Machiavelli said. "I was getting tired of seeing your ugly mug alone." He smiled, but then sneezed.

Billy wiped snot off of his shirt sleeve. "I'll have you know that my mug is beautiful. Girls from miles around used to come to cast their eyes on this mug."

The Italian giggled. "Can you read to me?" he asked, suddenly changing the topic. "We've only got a little bit left of Treasure Island left.

"Sure," Billy agreed. He picked up Treasure Island again and read aloud in his silvery voice. As he read, he felt the Italian settle into his side and when he was certain that Machiavelli was asleep, he shut the book. The boy's breaths came in heavy and uneven, his head cradled in Billy's lap. Billy didn't dare get up for fear of waking him. He remained on the couch, Machiavelli's head heavy in his lap, his words weighing on Billy's heart, and all the while snatches of Robert Louis Stevenson's words rolling through like the tide breaking on the beach.


	19. Chapter 19

_ Machiavelli felt heavy, like he was being pulled to ground by forces beyond his control._

_ Behind him, the Flamels were still trying to wake up Areop Enap. He should be helping them, he knew, but he had been distracted by the sight of the two American immortals huddled together, looking at the Karkinos. Anticipating what was about to happen, he struggled to reach Billy, but already the other immortals had sprung into action and he wasn't going to be quick enough, he just knew it. He was left helplessly framed in the doorway, watching as the younger man crept toward the gigantic crab. "Don't do anything stupid Billy," he begged softly._

_ But it was too late. He watched as the American stepped away from the side of the building and in front of the Karkinos. He could only watch in horror as the crab slammed one foot down, impaling the man he loved most. Machiavelli lurched forward, intent on saving Billy, but was thrown back by Mars Ultor._

_ Nearly hyperventilating, he clawed at the wooden doorframe, desperately trying to keep his legs under him. ""Billy," he whispered, watching the Native American immortal carry the outlaw back to the warden's house. He knelt beside him quickly, noting the blood on his lips, the jagged cut into the man's chest. He raised a hand to force his aura through the wound, but felt a hand grip his wrist. He looked up to see the Native American looking down at him._

_ ""You can't help him. He's already dead.""_

~MB~

"Mac!"

Machiavelli awoke with a start. The light in his room was switched on and Billy was leaning over him, looking down with concern. The Italian touched his face which was inexplicably wet and stinging. "What hit me?" he asked confused.

"I did," the American confessed. Looking at him, Machiavelli saw that Billy looked a little shaken, an expression the Italian had never seen on his face before. Billy cupped his face lightly, touching the area where he had smacked the boy. "You were having a bad dream. I couldn't wake you up."

The Italian lay there, his chest heaving. He stared up at Billy, alive, in sharp detail. The echoes of his nightmare played on the edges of his mind and his face crumpled. He threw his arms around the outlaw's neck and broke down entirely. Billy was clearly baffled at what was going on, but ensconced the Italian in his arms nonetheless, and stroked his hair. Machiavelli couldn't stop crying and this frightened him almost as much as the nightmare had. His whole body heaved.

Billy, to his credit, allowed the Italian to cry himself out. Only after Machiavelli loosened his grip, hiccupping, did Billy ease him back down onto the bed. He leaned over Machiavelli and swiped away at the boy's tears. "Feeling better?" he whispered, looking into the Italian's gray eyes. He sighed a little when the boy whimpered and shrugged helplessly. Bending a little more, he gently kissed the Italian's face. "What's happening?" he asked, feeling powerless.

Machiavelli blushed and pulled at his blanket. "I dreamed you were dead," he whispered, his voice breaking with emotion. He gripped the comforter over him.

Billy stroked his hair. "I'm right here with you. Thanks to you. You saved me." He glanced out the window, giving the Italian time to compose himself some more.

Machiavelli wiped at his face roughly. "I'm sorry, Billy," he whispered. The American looked back at him with surprise, tilting his head questioningly. Machiavelli clarified: "I don't know why I keep crying so much. I knew the whole time that you were alive. It just seemed so real."

"You don't have to apologize," Billy admonished softly. "We all get nightmares. I don't particularly like to think about that night myself." He smiled ruefully at the Italian.

"I don't want to close my eyes," Machiavelli confessed.

Billy rubbed at the side of his head. He glanced at the clock on Machiavelli's side table. "You don't have to. The sun will be up in a couple of hours. I can read you the rest of Treasure Island if you want. We were just about to finish when you fell asleep earlier."

"Okay," Machiavelli tried to sound calm. "What about after that?"

Billy tilted his head and looked off in the distance. "After I finish the book? Anything you want- I'll even sing for you if it helps." The outlaw still looked concerned, but waggled his eyebrows at the tactician. He commenced to finish off the book, which took very little time, all thing's considered. They'd been closer to the end than Machiavelli had realized.

Billy then sang him only the happy songs from Dr. Horrible's Sing Along Blog, something he'd never heard of before, that Billy apparently adored. The American immortal had even danced a little at the end which made Machiavelli smile. Billy's even timbre had a soothing effect on him and against his will, he felt his lids dropping closed again. He struggled against it for as long as he could, but eventually couldn't resist, and slipped off.


	20. Chapter 20

The next morning, Machiavelli didn't get up until it was nearly noon and when he did come down, Billy took one look at him and told him he couldn't go anywhere. "Too sick," he said, tapping the boy on his nose. "I think all the worrying you've been doing made you sick," Billy told Machiavelli sounding guilty. He felt the Italian's forehead, then shook his head, paused and kissed his forehead.

"What are you doing?"

"Apparently, you can check for fevers this way. But I can't make heads or tails of it. We're going to have to get a thermometer." He stroked Machiavelli's flushed face.

Machiavelli leaned into his touch. "I can never tell when I have a fever. Marietta always took care of the kids when they were ill. She used to kiss them on the forehead too, but I thought that was just to comfort them." He paused, thinking about how he had missed his chance to do a lot of things. He tried to quash the feeling that he'd made a terrible mistake. Instead, he tried to divert his feelings by going back to the conversation at hand. "Anyways, Billy, I don't think your emotions make you sick," he told the American.

"Maybe not," Billy admitted. "But my mother used to say that sickness followed sadness. I guess part of me still believes that." He paused. Machiavelli let him be quiet, knowing that someone who loved to talk as much as Billy did wouldn't stay quiet for long. "You know, one time I asked her if she got sick because she was so sad after my father left. She never answered." Billy laughed weakly. "Kids ask stupid questions," he told the Italian.

Machiavelli kept quiet, but he shook his head at the outlaw. He didn't think it was a stupid question, remembering some of the questions his children had asked of him, how some of them had really broke his heart. But he said nothing, knowing that Billy had never mentioned his father before, and might not continue now if he broke in. He wondered how much Billy knew of his father.

Something of his question must have showed in his face because Billy answered his thought. "I don't remember my father. He left shortly after I was born," he paused. "Possibly because I was born." Machiavelli winced, knowing that his children had seen very little of their father when they were growing up. He wished he could take it back now. Meanwhile, this conversation wasn't going at all the way that he had wanted it to. Instead of taking his mind off of his children, it was reminding him of his faults. He looked up. Billy was busy measuring out cough medicine.

Machiavelli tried to forestall the awful tasting medicine. Climbing up onto the kitchen stool, he looked over at the American. "What about your stepfather, Billy?" he asked.

Billy paused, "I told you about my stepfather. He left after my mother died. Actually, he was gone when my mother died. Out prospecting, and he didn't come back until after we had already buried her. I was the one who made the arrangements." He held the spoon in front of Machiavelli's mouth.

Grudgingly, the Italian accepted the cough syrup. He opened his mouth and Billy slipped the spoon in. He spluttered. "It tastes bad."

"I know." Billy squeezed his knee. "Anyway, Mac, you don't have to worry about me taking your father's place. I don't know how to be a father." He stood up, looking suddenly uncomfortable. "I'm going to make lunch now. Forget what I said, Mac, I didn't mean it."

Machiavelli straightened, looking up at the American. Rare surprise colored his face. "How did you know about that?" he asked, suddenly suspicious.

"Ah well," Billy ruffled his hair and looked to the side. "I might have eavesdropped on part of your conversation the other day," he mumbled. He had the decency to look ashamed.

"You what?!"

"Well... I didn't know it was going to be so serious. I just wondered what you would talk about with a kid, I didn't think it was going to be so serious." The outlaw scuffed at his cowboy boots. "I thought for sure you'd be talking about Pokémon or Yu-Gi-Oh, or something along the lines of that. Little boys shouldn't have these kinds of worries..." He looked into the Italian's face. "I'm sorry, Mac."

Machiavelli's face was tinged slightly with pink. He wasn't angry with Billy, knowing his own propensity to investigate others fully, but he was embarrassed and a bit ashamed by what Billy had overheard. "How much did you hear?" he finally asked.

Billy looked up and slightly to the right, trying to recall exactly what he had heard. He said slowly, "Just that you feel guilty about your father, what he might think about what we're doing. But," he emphasized. "I'm not trying to replace your father, it's just that..." he trailed off.

Machiavelli coughed and rubbed at his ribs. "Just what?" he tried to draw out the American.

The outlaw looked sheepish. "Before I was immortal, I never got to spend any time with the kids I had. And after I became immortal I realized that I was never going to have any kids. It wouldn't be fair to them. So, you're my one shot, Mac. I get you for as long as you're like this and that's it. No more kids for me." Billy had turned slightly pink while saying all this.

Machiavelli opened his mouth to say something, but closed it again, his mind reeling. He hadn't thought about how Billy must feel about all of this, nor had he known that Billy had once had any children. Suddenly, he realized that the outlaw and he shared another level of understanding, one that he had never intended on talking about. Feeling slightly dizzy, he asked "Can I watch TV?"

Billy nodded, looking relieved.

~MB~

For lunch, Billy made them tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. Machiavelli didn't have much of an appetite, but Billy broke off pieces of his sandwich, dipped them in the soup, and poked the pieces into his mouth. The Italian didn't resist Billy's ministrations, but he didn't help much either, numbly chewing.

"I'm really worried about you, Mac," Billy said finally. "Do you want to lie down, maybe get some more sleep?" Machiavelli shook his head. "Here, well let's watch some TV or something. Geez, but you're sweating."

Machiavelli looked up at him. "Am I sweating? I feel so cold."

Billy settled the Italian onto the couch. "I don't know what to do, Mac. Let's hope one of the others knows how to take care of sick kids." He wrapped a blanket around Machiavelli and put on an old Scooby Doo episode. The outlaw thought for certain that Machiavelli would protest, but the boy quickly became entranced with the show. Once, when Billy passed the living room, the Italian informed him that he was a dead ringer for Shaggy. Watching the cartoon for moment, Billy made the mental note to switch which medicine he was giving the Italian.

The American opened up the other rooms, getting the cabin ready for the others to arrive. Ruffling Machiavelli's hair fondly, he stepped out on the front porch to make a call. He dialed the number for Black Hawk and listened to it connect. "Hello, Black Hawk- Oh, hello Mrs. Flamel. Is he driving?" He listened to the Frenchwoman's response. "Listen, I was wondering if you could stop and pick up some supplies for me? Oh, good. Here's what I need..."


	21. Chapter 21

"That sounds like them," Billy called out a couple of hours later. Machiavelli hit pause on the TV and wandered over to where Billy sat beside the big front window. He leaned into Billy for support as the two immortals watched Black Hawk's jeep pull in from the main road. "Come on angel, you want to go see them?" Billy asked, picking up Machiavelli.

The Italian nodded, his face leaning close to Billy's so that they were touching at the temples. Billy could feel the fever rolling off of him as they waited on the front porch for the others to park and come up. "I wish you felt better, baby." He swung him back and forth in a gentle rocking motion.

"I remember this place," Black Hawk called to Billy as he climbed out of the Jeep. Meeting each other half way, they gave each other a brotherly embrace, Billy looping one arm around Black Hawk's shoulders. Black Hawk was looking at Machiavelli. "I hear you're sick," he said carefully to the Italian. The Italian nodded shyly and clutched at the outlaw. Billy bounced him in his arms before setting him down on the ground.

"He's getting bigger, isn't he?" Billy exclaimed happily. He looked over at the jeep where the other immortals had gotten out and if anything, his smile widened, seeing the familiar flash of reddish brown hair. "Scathach! You're here now too?" He threw his arms around her as she came up, twirling her in a circle. "I haven't seen you in a long time."

Scathach gave him a tight smile, revealing her pointed teeth. "Billy," she said fondly. She looked over at the boy, half hidden behind Black Hawk. Machiavelli's reluctance to see the Shadow had apparently overcome any reservations he had towards Black Hawk. For once, the Native American immortal didn't say anything, just let the boy be. "Is that really Machiavelli?" she whispered to the American.

Billy followed her gaze over to the Italian. He smiled. "Sure. Did you two know each other? I didn't know that." He called over to the Italian. "Hey Mac, come over here!"

Machiavelli came over somewhat reluctantly. "Miss Scathach," he acknowledged politely. He reached up and grasped Billy's hands, still hiding behind most of Billy's body. The American looked between the immortal and the vampire, confusion blooming on his face. "Have you met before?"

"Well, we just recently were on opposite sides in Paris. And he sent me to a shadow realm with Joan. But before that I sent him through a door," Scathach explained. She settled her hands on her hips.

"It took forever to get all the splinters out," Machiavelli mumbled.

The Warrior knelt before the boy. "Still, I think we're probably even now, wouldn't you say?" she asked the Italian.

Machiavelli thought for a moment. "Yes, I think we might be." He smiled at her. He extended a hand out. "Truce?" he asked her.

"Truce." She shook his hand. Machiavelli moaned and touched his face, obstructing the sun's glare from his eyes. "Are you all right, kid?" The Italian shook his head and sneezed loudly. Scathach ended up with a slightly wet hand. She grimaced and muttered under her breath, "Sealed with a kiss, I see."

"Ohh," Machiavelli moaned. "Sorry," he told her, but as Billy handed her a patterned kerchief, the American could swear that there was a small smile on his face. Billy picked him up again, but gave him a slight pinch that told him he hadn't gone undetected. Still, Billy had a sly grin on his face when they went back to the cabin, telling Machiavelli that the American had found his actions amusing more than anything else.

~MB~

"Come on, Mac," Billy said after dinner. He came up behind Machiavelli, who was sitting by the window. The Italian looked up at him questioningly. "I think I'm going to put you in to soak."

Black Hawk whispered to Scathach, "I think that means he has to take a bath."

"Really?" she replied. "I thought he was going to try to get a tough stain out," she whispered back. Black Hawk laughed. The two immortals struggled to muffle their laughter. Machiavelli glanced over at them before focusing on the American.

Machiavelli leaned to the right. "What if I fall asleep in the water, Billy? What if I drown?" he asked sleepily. He dawdled by the window. Billy steered him in the direction of the upstairs bathroom.

"You're not going to drown," Billy told him patiently. Machiavelli seemed to be having trouble lifting his feet, so Billy caught him under his armpits and lifted him. They were at bathroom now. "The end of the tub's sloped. I'll lean you back." Billy began to fill the tub. He glanced behind at the boy, who was struggling out of his clothing. Falling back on his heels, he drew the Italian closer to him and helped pull the shirt over his head. The American lifted him into the tub and settled him in. "I'll be back in about ten minutes to pull you out, love." He ruffled the boy's hair.

"Okay," Machiavelli said faintly. Already, the hot water seemed to be helping him breathe easier.

Billy looked at him for a moment, then padded down the stairs to join the other immortals who'd dispersed themselves onto the chairs on the front porch. He settled into place next to Black Hawk. The Native American immortal offered him a beer which Billy declined.

"You sure it's the best idea to leave him in the tub alone?" Black Hawk wanted to know, taking a swig of his own beer.

"I'll check on him soon. The water's not that deep," Billy defended himself. He looked around the group. "So what's everybody been doing?"

Perenelle sipped from her glass of wine. "Resting. Nicholas has been making the elixir again. And then we made contact with Scathach and the others when they came back to our time."

Scathach took up the story, explaining how the immortals had stayed at their cottage for a while before heading back to their respective homes. "Although, Palamedes and Shakespeare did mention stopping by the Germains before going home for good," she amended. "They're going to help them rebuild their house. We left it a mess last time we were over there. Machiavelli might have told you about that." Billy nodded sagely, having dragged the story of Machiavelli's Paris problems from him while the others were settling into their rooms..

Nicholas spoke up last. "I've been looking into the Codex, specifically the part that concerns Machiavelli's condition." Nicholas finished.

Billy sat up straighter. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah," Nicholas nodded. He looked over at the American. "I can tell you about it. I'd like to talk to you about it first before I say anything to Machiavelli."

"Sure," Billy agreed. He checked his watch. "I'm going to pull the kid out of the tub now. Why don't you come up with me and after he's set we can talk?" Nicholas pulled himself up off the porch swing and followed the American back into the house.

~MB~

"Hey, old man, you're still awake." Billy smiled wide at the Italian. Nicholas followed the American into the bathroom. Leaning over the tub, Billy pulled the stopper out of the bathtub and let the water drain away. "I thought for sure you'd be conked out by now," he murmured, keeping a steady flow of conversation.

"Mmm," Machiavelli was fading fast. As the last of the water left the tub, Billy scooped him up and turned.

"Can you grab a towel?" Billy asked Nicholas, nodding in the direction of the closet. The Frenchman picked up a blue one off the top and followed Billy into the Italian's room. Billy accepted it with thanks, sitting Machiavelli in his lap as he toweled the boy off.

Nicholas slipped his fingers under the golden chain around Machiavelli's neck. His lips moved as he read the words on the pendant. The Italian looked at him defiantly, knowing that Nicholas would easily understand the words. But Nicholas let it fall from his hand, with the murmur that Billy had good taste. Billy grinned wide, pulling one of his long t-shirts over the boy's head. "I know," he acknowledged.

Machiavelli was now so tired that he seemed to go absolutely boneless. Billy hefted him into bed and pulled him down slightly so that he was comfortably in the bed. "See," Nicholas told him, watching the two interact. "You've only gotten better."

Billy smiled. "It's good of you to say that. But I have no clue what I'm doing half of the time." They looked down at Machiavelli's slumbering form. Billy's face grew serious. "You want to talk now?"


	22. Chapter 22

Convinced that Machiavelli was asleep for the night, Billy followed the older immortal down the stairs and into the front yard. Stopping by the group sitting in the front yard, the two indicated their intentions to take a walk.

Perenelle looked up at her husband. "All right," she agreed, catching her husband's hand. "Be careful you two." She looked over at Billy as she said this, but the American just nodded at her from his position in between Black Hawk and Scathach. The others watched as Billy and Nicholas set off down the road.

Billy maneuvered himself so that he was on the outside, closest to the road. "Mr. Flamel- Nick, is Machiavelli going to be okay?" he asked anxiously, looking sideways at the French immortal.

Nicholas looked quickly at Billy. "Of course," he said in his precise English. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to worry you. Niccolò is in no danger." Beside him, Billy visibly relaxed.

The two came to a fork in the road and Billy led them to the left, away from the lake and down the path that led to the playground. Nicholas paused at the gate, but Billy walked right through. Realizing he was alone, he looked back and retraced his steps. "It's fine. Past dark there's usually nobody here." He smiled. "Best place in the world to talk if you don't want to be heard." He led Nicholas to the swings, where the two sat beside each other.

"You seem happy," Nicholas commented. "Parenthood suits you well."

"I am happy," Billy said, swinging backwards a little. "I never thought I'd get a chance to be a father. It's nice even if it is temporary."

Nicholas looked over at the younger immortal. "I've known Machiavelli a long time. I think this is the happiest I have ever seen him." Keeping his gaze on the younger man, he carefully asked, "If you could, would you keep him a child forever? Keep things as they are now?"

Billy skidded to a stop. "I love Machiavelli," he admitted. "But like I told you before- I want him back as an adult. It's..." he trailed off and coughed, glancing at Nicholas. "Why are you asking this?" he queried softly.

Nicholas pulled the Codex out of a pouch tied around his neck. He perched a pince nez on his nose, and opened the book one of the first pages. Billy looked at him questioningly, but held up a lit ball of aura to help him read. The American shifted over to look at the page, but scanning the changing symbols, shrugged and drifted back. Nick hastened to explain. "I've been researching this while you were gone. This page describes the circumstances that led to Machiavelli's conditions." His fingers moved across the page and wisps of smoke came off the page. He hesitated, but continued. "I could stop Machiavelli from aging all the way back."

Billy nearly fell off of his swing. "What?" he squawked as surely as if Machiavelli had put the death grip on him. "What are you talking about?"

Nicholas closed the book carefully. "Abraham, the man who wrote the Codex, was a humanist," he explained. "He believed in the goodness of the humans, at a time when most of his peers believed that humans were weak and useless. Abraham wanted to reward the goodness of mankind so he engineered a spell that would stop the age regression process from reversing itself."

Billy was struggling to process the information before him. "I thought the immortality potion did that?"

"The immortality potion would be useless for him. He's already immortal. But the spell would freeze him at whatever age we cast the spell at.

"So, if Mac wanted to stay twenty for all time, he could?"

Nicholas nodded. "Essentially, yes. Like all spells in the Codex, it has to be renewed. In this case, every year, or Machiavelli will age back to where he started." He paused, giving Billy some time to absorb all the information coming at him. "Obviously, this is Machiavelli's decision. But knowing how close you two are, I did want to talk to you about it too- see how you felt about it."

Billy looked up at the stars. He cleared his throat, feeling overwhelmed. "I fell in love with Machiavelli, knowing he was a lot older than me," he said slowly. "I don't care what age he is, I'm always going to love him as much as I do at this moment. If he wants to be younger fine. If not, that's okay too." He stopped, embarrassed.

To his right, Nicholas smiled. "Good. Machiavelli is lucky to have you."

Billy ruffled his hair. "I've said too much," he mumbled. "I always do. But, umm, Nick? Let's not talk about this with Machiavelli until after he gets over his cold. I don't want to upset him or anything."

Nicholas nodded. Billy got up out of the swing and helped to pull the Frenchman to his feet. Nicholas looked at their feet. "You were right, this is a great place to discuss business. But we're lucky we're both wearing boots or we'd be shaking sand out of our shoes for days."

Billy chuckled. "I know. Come on now, we should head back. Else they might think we've been eaten by a bear."


	23. Chapter 23

"Where'd Billy go?" Perenelle asked her husband the next morning. Light filtered in through the kitchen curtains.

Nicholas looked up from the book he was pouring over. "He mentioned bringing food to someone. I don't know where exactly he went, except that he went in the direction of the park we talked at last night."

Perenelle poured a cup of tea for herself and for her husband. "Did you tell him about the Codex?" she queried softly. Black Hawk and Scathach looked up too.

"I told him," Nicholas acknowledged. Sensing the question lingering in the room, he continued, "I think it went well. He said he'd stand behind whatever decision Machiavelli makes. He did ask that we don't tell Machiavelli about it until he's feeling better at least."

Scathach leaned back to look out the door. Certain that Billy's car hadn't pulled up, she leaned in closer and asked, "Do you think they're going to get married?"

Black Hawk looked out the window too. "I hope he does," he said, albeit somewhat reluctantly. "They're good for each other, kind of even each other out. I've never seen Billy this happy and -"

All the immortals fell silent at that moment though, hearing the crunch of gravel in the front yard which meant that the younger American immortal was back. Sure enough, Billy came in through the front door moments later. "Morning," he said happily to the group of immortals, pouring himself a cup of coffee.

"So where'd you go?" Black Hawk asked him.

Billy settled down beside them. "I went to bring food to this kid Mac and I met. We don't think he eats enough and Mac has been away for a couple of days because of his cold, so I wanted to check on him." He took a sip of his coffee and pulled a face. He leaned over to grab the creamer. "I ended up bringing him out to breakfast."

"That was nice of you," Perenelle said, smiling. "Oh, Billy, we've all been wanting to ask you- what is Machiavelli like as a kid, now that you've spent some time with him?" Perenelle asked the American immortal curiously. "Is he very different from the adult Machiavelli?" The American opened his mouth to reply, but never got the chance.

"Billy!" Machiavelli tromped down the stairs. "I don't have any clean underwear," he informed the immortal.

Billy half covered his face with his hand. "Yes, Mac, I can see that. In fact, we can all see that." He got up and pulled a stack of clean clothes from the ironing board. "Here's your laundry," he told the Italian.

Machiavelli grabbed at the pile, dropping at least two shirts in the process. The rest of the stack he successfully hung on to and he scurried back upstairs, calling out "Bye!" to the other immortals in the room.

Billy sat down again beside Perenelle. "Yes, Mrs. Flamel," he said mildly, "Mac is slightly more open as a child."

"I'd wager so," Scathach called out. From her position, the American guessed that she had seen quite the eyeful. He smiled sheepishly at the entire room.

~MB~

"So, how do we play this?" Scathach flipped over the box to the game.

"One person asks a question and everybody else writes down their answer and passes it to the questioner's right," Nicholas read from the instruction manual. "That person reads them out loud and the questioner has to guess which person said what. Each person they guess right is one space they can move forward on the board."

"Cards Against Humanity sounded more interesting," Black Hawk mumbled from his place by the fire.

"Loaded Questions is a good way to get to know others," Nicholas said. "And let's face it, we're kind of a mixed bunch of people."

"Anyways, Cards Against Humanity isn't age appropriate," Billy called from the kitchen, indicating Machiavelli.

"I'm older than you are!" Machiavelli protested. Billy patted him on the head as he passed him. The Italian coughed loudly into the crook of his arm. "Can I go first?" he asked, looking around the room. Nobody protested so he picked up the first card and read out, "What would be a terrible place to find yourself tomorrow?"

Five pencils scratched, then their papers were handed to Black Hawk. He glanced at the papers and said, "Okay, four people answered 'Alkatraz' and one person put downtown Los Angelos."

Machiavelli cocked his head. "I'm going to guess Scathach said Los Angelos and everybody else said, well, you know..."

Black Hawk passed back all the answer sheets. "Good job, kid, they're all right. So I guess you move forward five spaces," he told the boy.

Perenelle asked the next question, "What is your favorite kind of candy?" This question got a more varied answer set, with the answers varying from peppermint drops to panforte. Perenelle got three of the answers right, knowing that Nicholas loved peppermint drops and Scathach always ate Almond Joys, and guessing that Machiavelli liked panforte.

"I was horehound candy," Billy told her taking back his answer sheet. "Black Hawk is the one who's always sucking on maple candy."

"I'm next," Scathach interrupted, grabbing the next card. "What is the worst clothing you could wear?" She looked around the room. "If I could have answered this one, I would have said anything from the 80's. Those were some dark times. Go ahead and read," she told Nicholas, who'd collected the answers.

"Was that directed at me?" Billy asked afterwards, when Machiavelli identified his answer as 'jeans and a t-shirt'. Machiavelli smiled up at him innocently and motioned at Nicholas to read out the next question.

Nicholas frowned at the question in front of him, but read out clearly, "If you were a professional wrestler, what would be your ring name?"

Billy nudged the Italian. "How about Mac-a-Whack?"


	24. Chapter 24

Billy frowned a little. He paused at the door and turned around again, facing the Frenchwoman. He put up a hand, carefully framing his argument. "Are you sure you're okay watching him, cause if you aren't I could just stay here and..."

Perenelle motioned him out the door. "Go," she commanded firmly. "Nicholas and I are not going to kill Machiavelli while you're gone. You need the time off." She pushed him away from the cabin.

"I'm beginning to think that you don't want to spend time with us," Black Hawk called from the Jeep where he and Scathach already sat. He honked the horn on the wheel impatiently. "Come on, we'll be back in a couple of hours. You can't be away for a couple hours?"

Billy looked helplessly back at the cabin, but trudged over to the Jeep. "Of course, I want to spend time with you," he told his friends, climbing into the back of the vehicle. "But remember," he called to Perenelle, "he needs to be fed clear liquids, nothing heavy, and give him his cough medicine at eleven. And I think that..." Black Hawk peeled out, causing Billy to lurch backwards a little. He grabbed the side of the Jeep, thankful that there was a pipe welded to the door. The Flamels waved from the front yard of the cabin.

Black Hawk looked back at his young American friend through the rear view window. "Billy, you're becoming one of those mothers who only know how to do things with their kids. Get a grip," he drawled.

"I am not!" Billy protested, still clawing at the frame of the car as Black Hawk flew over a particularly nasty dip. He whooped happily as the backseat bumped upwards and he was temporarily held in midair.

"What are we doing today anyways?" Scathach broke in, also white knuckling the frame.

Black Hawk began to whistle. "I have a buddy who owns a racing track about an hour from here," he said happily. "He's agreed to let us use it for the day."

"Oh, good," Scathach mumbled. "Soon we'll be in a fast car."

"What was that?"

"She said it's seems a bit far," Billy covered for her from the backseat. "I could've driven," he added under his breath.

"I've got to be honest with you, Bill. I don't like your Thunderbird." Billy shifted as if he had been hit. "Now if you had gotten a Mustang..." the Native American teased.

~MB~

As it turned out, Scathach outraced both the American immortals when they finally got there. The moment they had gotten there, she had claimed the black racing car, easily winning race after race. Even when the two Americans stopped to break for lunch, she continued wheeling around the track. Black Hawk didn't seem to mind, grinning happily as he watched her careen around the corners, finally screeching to a halt. The Shadow sauntered over to where the two men stood.

"Having fun?" she called to the two men.

"Having a great time," Black Hawk called back. The two immortals helped her over the barrier and into the stands. "I was thinking, Billy, we should bring Machiavelli back here when he's older. He needs to have fun."

"And I can teach him sword fighting," Scathach added, dropping into one of the stadium seats. "It's seems like the kind of thing he might like."

Billy leaned back against the railing and grinned. "Look at the two of you. Just this morning you were giving me trouble for talking about the kid too much."

Black Hawk had to laugh. "Fine. So we all talk about him. I think he needs to do something that thrills him. I've thought that since before all of this happens."

Billy settled down on the ground in front of them. He tipped back his hat. "I think so too," he admitted freely. "I was thinking of taking him paint balling when he's a little bit older. I want to pack all the fun I can into him before he gets older again and things go back to the way they were."

The grin faded from Black Hawk's expression. "You think he's going to take off when he's an adult again?"

Billy cocked his head to the side, then nodded. "See, he's got these little kid emotions in him right now which take over sometimes, and I think that's why he doesn't mind spending so much time with me. But I think that once he's an adult again and he's got his mind back where it should be, he won't want to be with me so much." He looked away, and leaned back to grab Scathach a soda from their cooler.

"Thanks," Scathach toasted him. She was quieter, both of them were, wishing Billy hadn't said what he had, wishing he didn't believe the things he did. "Billy," she tried carefully. "I think you underestimate Machiavelli. I think you bring a lot to him that he needs."

The outlaw scratched the side of his face, rubbing his stubble. "I'm not smart like Machiavelli is. I barely spent any time in school and when I did go, I always got in trouble. I still get in trouble wherever I go. I can't imagine Machiavelli ever loving a man like me." Billy noticed their melancholy air. "Aw, hell," he said. He jumped to his feet and did a flip over the bar. "Let's have one more race before we go home," he yelled. "Bet I beat you!"

~MB~

"I think it's kind of sad," Scathach whispered to Black Hawk as they followed Billy up the driveway to the cabin. "He thinks Machiavelli only needs him now while he's stuck in the kid's body."

"We'll have to work on it," Black Hawk murmured back. He let her in through the doorway first. The two smiled to see Billy capturing the Italian in a hug.

Scathach stepped beside Nicholas. "Have fun today?" she asked, grinning at him.

Nicholas rested an arm around her shoulder and gave her a quick kiss on the temple. "It wasn't a very eventful day," he explained. "Machiavelli slept a lot, but he got up this afternoon and made raspberry brûlée with Perenelle. Those two get along surprisingly well."

Scathach looked over at the Machiavelli to see that he had led Billy back to Black Hawk. Her keen hearing picked up traces of their conversation, telling her that Black Hawk and Billy were busy recounting (and stretching) their stories about their day. "Is the raspberry dish the reason why Machiavelli is purple?" she asked the Frenchman.

"Ah." Nicholas suddenly looked uncomfortable. "No, that wasn't it at all."

"Then why-?"

Nicholas steered her towards Perenelle. "I don't wish to talk about it," was all he said.


	25. Chapter 25

"Where do you go in the mornings?" Machiavelli asked Billy curiously.

Billy opened the fridge and pulled out the carton of eggs. "I went to the park to make sure John's eating. I ended up bringing him to a diner. He had eggs, I had coffee."

"That's good." Machiavelli quirked his eyebrows. "Does he wonder where I've been? I hope he doesn't think I abandoned him, especially after he told me that thing you heard..."

Billy shook his head from his place over at the stove. "I told him that you've been sick." He scratched at his neck. "I talked to him for a bit this morning. Told him my dad left me when I was young too. I think he'll turn out all right in the end."

"This is the young man you were talking about the other night at dinner?" Perenelle asked. "I hope things get better for him. Maybe we can help him." She looked over at her husband, who nodded subtly. The Frenchwoman then looked over at Machiavelli with a critical eye. "I thought he was getting better last night, but now it seems like his cold has come back again."

"He'd better get well soon," Billy said sitting down to breakfast. He pointed at the Italian. "You've noticed that he's gotten bigger again? Soon we won't have any clothes left for him."

"How old is he now?" Black Hawk asked over Machiavelli's head.

"About eight," Billy said absentmindedly stroking the Italian's wavy locks. "I suppose you're too sick for another party," he told the boy. Machiavelli didn't say anything, but sipped his tea. "Mac?"

"Oh were you talking to me?" Machiavelli quipped rather snarkily. "I thought perhaps you were going to spend the whole day, talking over my head."

Black Hawk laughed and apologized. "You were full of fire at this age, weren't you? How'd you become that careful old man that I met a couple of months ago?"

"Got burned too many times," the Italian replied. He turned back to look at the American. "And who say's I'm too sick for a party? I feel a hundred percent!" He held up his arms. Billy reached over and pinched his nose shut for the briefest of moments. Machiavelli instantly went into a coughing fit.

"If this is one hundred percent, I hate to see you when you feel crummy," Billy drawled, going back to his coffee. "But if you want a party, I think the others want to give you one. Black Hawk got you something the other day in town, I think you'll like."

"A suit?" Machiavelli exclaimed happily.

"Ah, no."

~MB~

"You got an eight year old boy a cappuccino machine?" Scathach wrinkled her forehead in confusion. "What are you mad?"

Black Hawk defended himself. "This isn't just any coffee machine. It's a La Pavoni Europiccola, more specifically, the exact machine that James Bond uses in 'Live and Let Die'.

"And if Machiavelli turns out to not be a Bond man?"

Black Hawk looked up at her. "The man loves cars, expensive suits, and sunglasses. If he isn't a Bond fan, I'll eat my hat."

"You're not wearing a hat," Billy said, passing the two. Scathach nodded and pointed at the American, sharing his sentiment.

"Where's the kid?" Black Hawk asked. "With the Flamels?"

Billy shook his head. "The Flamels are downtown getting some stuff for the party. And Mac I put down for a nap. He didn't like it too much, but I told him if he was going to have a party, he was going to have to rest beforehand."

"So what'd you get him that's so great anyways?" Black Hawk asked Scathach with interest.

Scathach pulled out a huge bag from the closet. She smiled. "Every Harry Potter Legos set I could find. I thought he might get a kick out of it." Billy laughed.

"He'll like that," he told her. "He's a smart kid."

~MB~

"You know you guys didn't have to buy me presents," Machiavelli told them as he unwrapped the final gift, Billy's present. "I just wanted to eat cake again." The Italian looked at the box that he had just unwrapped like it was a bomb about to go off. "Is this real?" he asked, poking at the side of the box that read 'Family Blankeez: The Snuggie for the Whole Family'.

Billy sighed happily. "I nearly shit myself when I saw this in the store," he confessed without any trace of shame.

Machiavelli opened the box and heaved a sigh of relief when he didn't find an eighteen foot wide snuggie in it. "Spoof box," he mumbled pulling out the contents of the box. "A chess set," he said softly, smiling as he looked at the intricately designed pieces. "Chess of the mad queen," he mumbled to himself, his fingers turning over the pewter pieces.

Nicholas settled back on the couch. "We've found his favorite," he said smiling.

"I like all of my gifts," Machiavelli said diplomatically. He looked up at Billy. "Could I make my cappuccino now?" he asked hopefully.

"No." Billy shook his head. "You've already had three pieces of cake. I'm surprised you haven't blown bits all over-"

Machiavelli held up his hand. "Please. 'No' will suffice next time."


	26. Chapter 26

"Billy? Can I have another piece of cake?" Machiavelli begged. He wrapped his arms around Billy's thin waist and gave him his best puppy eyes. "Please?"

"Mac, you just had lunch. A pretty big lunch," Billy reminded him.

Machiavelli hung on to him, undeterred. "But I'm still hungry. And I'm sick." To prove his point, he sneezed into the patterned handkerchief Billy had been keeping in his back pocket. "Can I keep this?" Billy nodded, filling the sink with hot water.

"Oh, just give it to him," Black Hawk called.

"You think giving him another piece of cake will help him?" Billy chewed his lower lip thoughtfully, his forehead crinkled.

Black Hawk shrugged. "He hasn't had a piece since yesterday, what can it hurt?"

"I don't know," Billy hedged. "You want another piece, partner?" Machiavelli nodded hopefully, his eyes imploring. "All right, cut him a little piece," he told the Native American. He went back to working on the lunch dishes.

Black Hawk gave him a good sized chunk anyways. Machiavelli squeezed his hand with thanks and took his piece out onto the porch where he sat in between Scathach and Perenelle.

"He's a ladies man," Nicholas observed from the kitchen table.

Billy smiled from his place at the sink. "He's a good kid. I wished he'd get better though. It seems like he should be better by now though, shouldn't he?"

"Well I don't know Billy," Black Hawk said sarcastically. "You said he got sick the day before we got here. That was five days ago. What do you think?"

"Okay, okay, so I'm a worrier," Billy admitted and pulled the plug out of the sink, letting the dirty water swirl out of sight. Black Hawk clapped him on the shoulder and grabbed his fishing rod, heading for the lake. Billy and Nicholas watched him salute the ladies and Machiavelli as he headed out.

"I was thinking of doing some laundry soon, you want anything put in?" Billy asked Nicholas. The older man shook his head and motioned the American over. Billy came over and settled next to him, grabbing his book.

"What are you reading now?" Nicholas said with some interest. "You finished that Machiavelli biography."

"Days ago," Billy grinned. "But sometimes I open it up anyways cause it bothers Mac. Anyway, right now I'm reading Die Weiße Rose."

"Ah, verstehen sie Deutsch?

"Nur ein bischen," Billy replied. He looked over at the Frenchman. "Do you think I'm being foolish, worrying about Machiavelli so much?"

Nicholas shook his head, patting the American on the shoulder. "Knowing how you lost your children, it makes sense that you would worry with Machiavelli sick. Diphtheria is a terrible illness. But Niccolò only has a common cold. It's nothing to worry about."

Billy looked up. "Oh, I know he's not seriously ill, but I just want him to feel better. Kids seem to stay sick forever." The two men settled back into their respective books.

~MB~

"Billy!" Scathach called from the door. She came in, pushing the Italian in front of her. "Your kid's looking sick."

"Sick, he just had a piece of cake," Billy questioned, pulling Machiavelli towards him. He felt the boy's face. "Are you going to puke? You only had one piece," he told the Italian as if by sheer force of will he could keep Machiavelli from being sick.

Scathach leaned against the counter. "When he started looking ill, Perenelle and I began to question him. Turns out he had the piece you gave him, the two he ate yesterday, and another one this morning before any of us got up."

"Oh, no," Billy groaned. "Are you going to puke?" Billy asked the Italian. Machiavelli was now looking distinctly green.

"Why would I puke?" Machiavelli replied weakly.

"Cause you've had at least half a cake in the past 24 hours?" Scathach supplied helpfully.

Machiavelli gave her a dirty look. "My stomach's just fine. I got through that whole experience on Alkatraz without puking, didn't I?

Billy nodded. He pointed at the Italian. "The kid's got a point, I mean, that was disgusting. Why when we had to listen to Hel eating that raw, bloody pig and things were snapping and squishing and that wet thing dropped on the ground, I thought for sure I was going to puke." He patted Machiavelli on the back. "But Mac here stood tall, even when we were sloshing through- hey, Mac, are you okay-?"

Scathach backed away from the boy. Machiavelli was looking sicker than ever. The Warrior gestured towards him, asking, "Is he going to...?"

Billy nodded, diving to grab the trash bin in time. He pulled it back to the Italian just as the boy lost the majority of his lunch and the four pieces of cake. Unfortunately, the bin wasn't much help, as most of the sick got on Billy and not into the bin.

Machiavelli's eyes were large. He stammered, "I'm sorry, Billy."

Billy looked down at the pool of sick on his shirt. He carefully sponged what he could off before he began to dab at the Machiavelli's face. "S'okay, Mac," he told the boy, wringing the sponge out so that he could clean up the Italian.

Scathach tried to placate the boy before he got too upset. "It's okay buddy, I think at least half of it got in the bin.

"Or at least a quarter," Billy said, looking into the bin.

Machiavelli felt terribly upset by that point. "None of it got in the bin, it all got on Billy," he wailed.

Billy peeled off his shirt and flung it into the sink. "Look," he said, "now none of it's on Billy. It's okay honey! It's okay," he repeated. "Don't cry, Mac, I've been puked on by worse people than you," he soothed.

"That's true," Scathach agreed. "None of the people who puked on him in the past were as cute as you."

Billy looked at her with his eyebrows raised. Scathach shrugged back at him. Billy grabbed his shirt out of the sink and put it in the washer. "Go take a shower, Mac. You'll feel better when you're clean again." Machiavelli nodded weakly and trudged towards the stairs. They soon heard the water running above them.

~MB~

Billy helped the Italian into bed that night. "You know Mac, I read a portion of that book the other day that said you once threw up over an ugly prostitute. You're not trying to tell me something are you?" Billy asked cheerfully.

Machiavelli pouted. "No," he said defensively, "and I don't want to talk about that right now. Just thinking about that woman makes me...ah-"

"Okay," Billy said quickly. "Let's not do anything to make you spew more." He pulled a book off of the nightstand. "Want me to read a new book to you?"

Machiavelli scooched backwards on the bed. "What are you going to read?" he asked curiously.

Billy pushed him over slightly. "It's called Snicker of Magic. You'll like it," he said happily. "Of course, it's a different kind of magic from what we've got, but I like it just the same."

Machiavelli leaned in, letting Billy's voice wash over him. He wanted to concentrate on the main character Felicity but found his mind wandering, noticing how Billy smelled like spices and aftershave, how his hands were smaller than his wrists, almost delicate...


	27. Chapter 27

"So you actually feel better now that you threw up?" Scathach asked the Italian skeptically. She sat down beside him where he was sitting by the window, working on the Hogwarts castle set that she had given him. He nodded at her. She shook her head. Machiavelli heard her mumble under her breath, "humans."

Machiavelli grinned up at her and leaned into her side. She moved slightly away from him, uncomfortable at the close contact, but he cuddled up against her again. "I was mostly all right the other day. I just..." he trailed off.

"Ate too much cake," the Warrior supplied. She handed the Italian another Lego like the one he had in his left hand. "Here, you need this if you're going to make the divination tower."

"Thanks," Machiavelli said distractedly. "Where's the turret?"

Perenelle scooped a piece off of the floor. "Is it this?" she asked handing it to him. Machiavelli nodded and grabbed it happily.

"Where'd the rest of the guys go?" he asked the room at large, still concentrating on putting together his castle. Legos seemed to suit the Italian immortal incredibly well; they required his attention and precision, characteristics that he had honed for years.

"They're down by the lake fishing," Scathach replied, wrinkling her nose distastefully. "They said you could go down and join them if you want, once you got up, so if you want to go that's fine. But I'll stay here. I don't like fish and fishing is boring, so..." she trailed off.

"I'll stay here too," Machiavelli chimed in, surprising the two women. He looked up at them and caught the tail end of their confusion. "I don't like fishing either."

"We're just a little surprised because we thought the two of you were attached at the hip," Scathach told him, poking him in the side. Machiavelli blushed faintly, determinedly fitting together the pieces. Perenelle shot a look to the Shadow and smoothed out the hair on the top of his head.

"What Scathach means is that we've noticed the two of you are very close. So we were expecting you'd rather go out and be with him than be shut in this cabin with the two of us," Perenelle explained demurely. "Especially since the forecast calls for rain the rest of the week."

"It's going to rain all week?" Machiavelli gave them his full attention now. "Then we won't be able to see John for another couple of days..." he trailed off. "I'm going to go see Billy."

"Okay," Scathach helped him up.

Machiavelli let the screen door slam shut behind him. He leaped over the front steps and took off at a run towards the docks where he could now see Billy, Black Hawk, and Nicholas sitting with fishing lines dropped into the water. He ran down the length of the dock and came to a halt by the American, skidding into the man.

Billy slung an arm around Machiavelli's thin shoulders. "Hey sweetheart, we've been waiting for you." He smiled brilliantly.

_'His eyes look just like the water_,' Machiavelli noticed, getting distracted. He shook his head, telling himself to focus. "It's going to rain the rest of the week?" he asked, leaning against Billy.

Billy's eyes darkened slightly. "Ah, you heard about that? Yeah, it looks like we'll be stuck in the cabin together for couple of days. Too bad too since you just got better..." They both watched as Black Hawk pulled his line in, the string taunt and jerking. Moments later, the Native American had a rainbow trout about the size of his forearm. Machiavelli turned his nose slightly, a movement that Billy caught. "Don't like fish, huh?" he asked, pitching his voice low so that only the Italian and him could here. Machiavelli shook his head.

"Can't we go see if John's at the playground?" Machiavelli asked, dropping all pretenses. He attempted to look as cute as possible.

"Sure," Billy agreed.

Machiavelli huffed. "Well sometimes I don't know what to do with you," he said.

Billy looked surprised. "What'd I do? I agreed with you!"

"Exactly! I put all of this effort into looking cute, and you just agree like nothing." Machiavelli gestured to himself. "I'm working hard for nothing. I ought to-" Billy hugged him tight, cutting him off.

Billy released him and wound in his line. "We can go now, if you want. You guys staying here?" Black Hawk and Nicholas acceded. "Okay, then it's just you and me, Mac. Unless maybe we can get one of the girls to go with us..."

~MB~

As it turned out, both the female immortals accompanied the American and the Italian on their trip. Though Perenelle claimed she wanted to catch some sun and Scathach complained of boredom, Machiavelli suspected they wanted to observe him in action.

Scathach turned out to be a lot of fun to Machiavelli's surprise, who still harbored some resentment over the whole door incident. After Machiavelli looked around for the pale boy with the sad eyes and didn't find him, he agreed to play with Scathach. The Warrior was particularly happy to find a set of gymnastic bars and he watched her with some amazement when she flipped over entirely and turned in midair. She only stopped her antics when she saw Perenelle drag her thumb across her throat, jerking her head at the open-mouthed parents.

"Ah, maybe you can show me the drawbridge," she told Machiavelli who agreed without question, having seen the disbelief forming on the face of one mother in particular. He shook his head slightly as they climbed onto the wooden bridge.

Machiavelli was caught by surprise when she jumped on her end of the bridge. His end bounced up and he came back down with a jolt. His face broke into a happy smile and he began to jump up and down with her. "I love you!" he hollered happily before dashing away to slide down the fireman's pole. Scathach was left standing rather dumbfounded on the bridge.

Billy leaned onto the side of the bridge, tugging on Scathach's ankle. "Kids," he called to her, "they get you every time." He walked over to where the Italian had dropped down the pole. "You're friend's here Mac. I told him I'd push both of you on the merry-go-round today. Scathach too, if we can pry her off the bridge."

"Okay," Machiavelli took off like a shot. He grabbed Scathach's hand, dragging her with him. "Come with me. I want you to meet John."

"Where's Perenelle?" Scathach called over her shoulder to the American. He pointed to where the Frenchwoman was already pushing a skinny kid around on a tricolored merry-go-round. She pulled it to a stop and let the Italian climb on.

Stepping into place, Billy asked the Shadow if she wanted to climb on, to which she rolled her eyes. "Anybody else getting on," he called out cheerfully. A little girl with pigtails timidly asked if she could get on too and he smiled gently at her and helped her up. Making sure the three kids were on securely, he began to spin the ride, letting it gain momentum. The pigtailed girl squealed with happiness. "Tell me when to stop it," he said, letting it spin on its own volition mostly now.

Billy stepped back a bit so he could talk to the ladies. Occasionally he would reach forward and give the merry-go-round an extra spin. When the little girl called to him, he pulled it to a stop and gave her his hand. She looked up at him with starry eyes, like he was akin to the gods. "She's cute," he commented to the ladies as he settled with them on the park bench.

Perenelle laughed, her voice tinkling like small bells. "She is," she agreed.

Scathach tutted slightly. "I can't even remember being that young," she said, a peculiar edge to her voice. "Where are the boys going?" she asked, looking after them as they ran around.

"Exploring," Billy explained, leaning against Perenelle slightly. "I think Mac worries about that kid. I wasn't originally planning on staying here as long as we have been." They all watched as the skinny boy whispered something in Machiavelli's ear. The Italian immortal listened carefully before cupping his hand to the boy's ear and whispering something back."

"Wonder what they're talking about?" Perenelle mused.

Billy shook his head. "I don't want to know," he said honestly. "By the way, we're probably going to have some company tonight," he told the others. "I told Mac that he should invite him over for a sleepover. Give the boy's mother some rest. Apparently, she's always working."

Perenelle scrutinized the American. "You're going to try to save that family, aren't you?"

"Of course." Billy beamed at her.


	28. Chapter 28

"Where'd your dad go?" John asked Machiavelli, dangling his feet between the railing slats of the second floor landing. They looked at the immortals gathered in the living room.

"He's out getting some more food," Machiavelli answered. "We're going through food a lot faster now that our family's come up to visit."

"Are you sure it's okay for me to be here with your family visiting like this?" John asked nervously.

Machiavelli sensed the unease in the young boy. "Of course it's okay," he reassured the boy. "I've missed you these past few days. Besides they're going to be here a while." He watched the boy visibly relax. He turned back to look at the immortals, but secretly watched John from the corner of his eye. Already, John looked like he was filling out slightly, the extra food they'd been giving him finally adding some weight to his frame. "Is it just you and your mom?" he asked suddenly.

John looked up in surprise. "My father took my older brother with him when he left. But he left me behind." There was a sad color in his tone.

"Don't you miss your brother?" Machiavelli still missed all four of his siblings, even now, many years after they had died.

John nodded. "I do, but I'm glad I was left here with my mom or I think she'd be lonely."

Machiavelli felt uncomfortable with the conversation's track. "Want to see my model car?" he asked, getting to his feet. "It's a copy of Billy's car," he explained. John followed him into the small bedroom in the back that he called his own.

John looked with interest at the airplane hanging from the ceiling and the Lego models that lay half-finished on the desk. "This is a great room," he admired, spinning around. Machiavelli pulled his car out.

"I've lived in a lot of places," he admitted. "But I like this one best. Billy's been very good to me." They heard the door open and close downstairs. Machiavelli looked over the railing and whooped, seeing the American pulling in bags. "Billy!" he hollered. "You're back!"

Billy scooped him up and swung him round and round the room. Even after he let the boy's feet touch the ground, he twirled the Italian in merry circles. Machiavelli giggled uncontrollably.

Black Hawk smiled, watching the two immortals, his teeth shining bright white against his darker skin. "Don't make him puke," he warned the other American.

Billy stopped twirling the Italian, but held him close. "I'm just awfully glad you're feeling better, Mac. I don't like to see you sick." He let go of Machiavelli and caught the wistful expression on John's face. He bowed low in front of the little boy and held out his hand. "Want to dance?"

John laughed, but refused. "Boys can't dance with each other," he whispered to Billy.

"Oh well," Billy looked around the room. "We've got more men than women in this house, so we kind of got used to it," he laughed. He pointed to Scathach. "If you're really against dancing with me, see if you can get her to kick up her heels."

Scathach smacked the American lightly. "Don't tease him," she muttered in his ear. "The boy looks completely scared of me."

~MB~

"You're sure you're comfortable?" Billy asked John, toeing the sleeping bag a bit. "Scathach said she'd switch with you two if you want the couch."

"I'm okay," John said happily. Billy had thrown another blanket over both boys, ensuring that none of the cold from the storm got to them. Outside of their cabin, the rain was coming down in sheets, the wind whipping it against the window. "Billy?" The American turned around in the doorway. "Why do you call her Scathach? What kind of name is that?"

Billy had to think about that one. "We call her that because Scathach was an ancient warrior from Scotland and our girl's a scrapper too, so we gave her the nickname." He turned out the light. "Hey listen boys, I don't mind you staying up, but try to keep it down. Nick and Perenelle are on the other side of that wall." He jerked his finger at the south-side wall. "Goodnight. Sleep tight." He pulled the door shut behind him.

John waited until the door shut before he sat up. He looked over at Machiavelli. "Nick, what do you want to do?"

Machiavelli turned over on his side to look at the younger boy. "I don't know," he admitted. "I've never had a sleepover before. What'd you have in mind?"

John looked excited, a rare emotion on his face. "Can we make a fort?" Machiavelli hadn't considered the idea before; now he nodded eagerly and began pulling the blankets from the bed. John looked thoughtfully around the room, then grabbed the desk chair and pulled it over. "After we're done we can read scary stories," he whispered excitedly.

Machiavelli tumbled to his feet. "Okay," he said, following the younger boy's lead. For once, the pale boy's face was shining brightly. Machiavelli didn't want to do anything to louse it up.


	29. Chapter 29

The two boys were up until the early hours of morning, eating junk food and playing games. Long before the sun came up, it began to rain. It was to a gentle tapping sound that they eventually fell asleep, Machiavelli in his bed and John on an air mattress that Billy had dragged out of the storage area. The rain continued throughout the night and on into the morning.

"Do you think it's weird for me to hang out with John?" Machiavelli asked as they drove back to the cabin after dropping off the skinny boy the next morning.

Billy shrugged. "I don't know, Mac, the kid needs a friend. You're kind of a little boy right now. And I think it's good for you to have someone in your life that isn't immortal and isn't tangled up with that mess we dealt with last month." He turned into their driveway. "If you think it'll help, perhaps you should explain to him what's really going on."

"You really think he'd believe it if I told him the truth?" the Italian questioned incredulously.

"No." Billy chuckled at the expression on his face. He shrugged and pulled Machiavelli out through the driver's side door so that they both had complete benefit of the umbrella. "He might not believe you at first," he admitted, "but he's bound to notice you getting bigger every week."

Machiavelli stopped and Billy came back to him. "I didn't even think about that," the Italian whispered, thinking hard. He pulled open the door.

"Well we don't have to figure everything out right now," Billy told the European immortal. The other immortals looked up at that, but the American shook his head subtly and they all went back to their individual activities. Machiavelli picked up on this and glanced suspiciously back at Billy, but the young man just shook his head and mumbled, "Not now."

Machiavelli squinted at him, but decided not to address the issue until Billy was ready. He helped the American set up the chessboard in between them. "Billy? How long are we planning on staying here?"

"I actually hadn't planned on staying here this long, but we're having fun here and I want to work out the thing with John before we go anywhere else." Billy opened by moving his king's pawn and Machiavelli countered with the Sicilian defense maneuver that he had come to love over the years.

"What do you think we should do, Nicholas?" Machiavelli asked the Frenchman. "Billy thinks we should tell John who we really are. Isn't that dangerous?"

"No, it's absurd," Billy broke in.

"I'm not sure I understand you," Machiavelli told Billy.

Nicholas smiled blithely at the American. "I think what Billy is saying is that we stand no real harm because it's so strange that nobody would believe him if he tried to spill our secrets."

Billy cut in. "But if he does believe us, we have a chance to really help him. And I want to help him." He captured the Italian's knight, but lost his rook to the Italian's next move. "Listen, Mac, I understand you more than you think. You feel bad because John is missing his father and you're thinking about how you were never around when your kids were growing up. But they're not necessarily the same thing." He castled.

Machiavelli accidentally knocked down the rook he was reaching for. "How could you possibly know that?" He trapped Billy's queen in the upper corner of the field.

The American skillfully out-maneuvered Machiavelli's tactics. He sighed. "I've been on both sides of it before. My father left long before I could remember him and then I was never around for my girls." Billy's smile was soft and sad. "I understand both sides now."

Machiavelli didn't know what to say. "Check." He was closing on Billy's king with his two rooks. He looked over at Nicholas for help. "What are you reading?" he asked him.

"Cancer Ward, by Solzhenitsyn." Nicholas's gray eyes sparkled. "I've gone into semi-retirement for a little while, after all the running around we did last month. So now I have plenty of time to reread some of my favorites."

"I enjoy Solzhenitsyn, but I like Matrayona's House better because- what do you mean, checkmate?" He looked over at the grinning American.

"I mean, I won," Billy said happily. He got up. "Listen, I'm going to make lunch and then you and I are going to have to go shopping. You're growing out of your clothes."

"Okay." Machiavelli got up out of his seat and climbed onto the arm of the Perenelle's chair. "Will you read to me?"" he asked her curiously.

Perenelle looked a bit surprised. "You want me to read to you?" she repeated back to him, making sure she had heard right.

Machiavelli nodded, grabbed his book, and tumbled in next to her on the loveseat. "Billy and I read the first chapter the other night. Felicity and her family just moved to Midnight Gulch, Tennessee and she found out that there might still be magic there..."


	30. Chapter 30

"Why is it that the closest mall is still an hour away?" Scathach complained from the passenger seat. She used her sleeve to wipe away the condensation from the window and looked out at the gray landscape.

Billy glanced over at her from the driver's seat. "It's Montana. We're lucky to have a mall at all."

Machiavelli piped up from the backseat. "Why do we have to go to a mall anyways? They have clothing stores in town."

Billy had to raise his voice slightly so that he could be heard over the rain pounding on the top of the car. "It would look suspicious if we went into town and bought a bunch of clothes for a nine year old, a ten year old, and an eleven year old when supposedly I only have a seven year old. It's not a very big town."

"Well that's true," Machiavelli mumbled. He turned to the Warrior Maid. "Why are you coming? You didn't outgrow your clothes." His statement came out sounding ruder than he had intended it too and he quickly back pedaled. He hadn't meant to be rude, he was simply genuinely curious about why she would come along. Scathach didn't seem like the mall type of person.

Scathach twisted around in her seat so that she could see both the other two immortals at the same time. "I've spent the last hundred years living in a city. Much as I like your little cabin, I'll go mad if I'm stuck in there for days on end."

Machiavelli leaned onto the front seat so that he was closer to the adults. "I like the cabin cause there's always somebody around. I don't have to be alone anymore." Again, he found that he had said too much. A faint touch of pink colored his face.

Billy reached his hand back blindly, keeping his eyes on the road. He found the Italian's head and patted it softly. "I'll never let you be alone again, Mac. You're stuck with me now and forever."

"Me, too. I'll always be your friend," Scathach said, looking back out the window. Apparently, the conversation was getting too touchy feely for the warrior though, for she quickly changed the subject. "What's up with the radio anyway?" she asked. "You normally have something going. Suddenly, we're sitting in silence? When we went to Las Vegas that time I spent half of the trip listening to him," she jerked her head at the American, "singing along with the Broadway musicals."

Billy nodded happily. "I love RENT," he agreed, unabashedly. "Anyways, the radio's all static right now what with the storm. I couldn't find a station."

"Ah," Scathach acknowledged.

"Of course, we could sing ourselves. Let's sing Dr. Horrible's Sing Along Blog. You know the songs, I sang that the other night when you had a-" A look from Machiavelli cut him off. He changed directions. "When you had a cold." He looked at Scathach. "I could be Dr. Horrible, you could be Penny, and the kid's Captain Hammer."

"I can't do that," Machiavelli protested. "I don't remember the lyrics."

At the same time he was protesting, Scathach said, "yeah, let's do that." Machiavelli leaned back in his seat, mumbling about how everyone ignored children.

~MB~

Scathach and Machiavelli followed the American into the boys' department of the store. "Okay, here's how I shop," he told Scathach. He held up a pair of purple shorts. "This pair of shorts is the next size up for him. Get that size and the next two sizes up. If all else fails, just get what seems bigger than he is."

"How many do you want of each size?" Scathach asked, thumbing through the hangers.

"Two or three. I do laundry fairly regularly."

"Jeans?"

Billy paused, thinking about it. "It's going to start getting cooler in about three weeks. So maybe a couple of pairs in sizes 12, 14, and 16." He kissed her on the cheek. Two women shot the Shadow jealous looks that Billy didn't notice, but Scatty definitely noticed it. She moved a little closer to the American and shot the other women a look. "Have fun with it. He's paying for it." He jerked his hand at the little boy, who was busy dumping boxer shorts in the cart. "Right, Mac?"

"Can we get a bathing suit?" Machiavelli clearly wasn't paying any attention to the adults' conversations. "For the next time we go rafting?"

"Sure," Billy said absentmindedly and the Italian grabbed a red and purple swimsuit. He trotted after Billy as the American walked over to the t-shirt display. "Like the Beatles?" Billy asked, holding up a couple of shirts. Machiavelli accepted or denied the t-shirts as he held them up. In particular, he enjoyed the shirt that had an imprint of a tie and suspenders on it. The outlaw shook his head, but grabbed copies of the shirt in three different sizes and colors.

Scathach joined them a minute later. "I'm all done over there. I even got the kid some socks. He forgot them."

"Okay, well that's all we need for you," Billy told the Italian. He looked over at Scathach. "I need to get some clothes for me. Anything you need here?"

Scathach shook her head. "I don't need anything. How about Mac and I head off and you can catch up with us after you're done." Without waiting for an answer, she grabbed the Italian's hand and led him off. Machiavelli had to skip slightly to keep up with her. He waved at Billy before they disappeared from sight entirely.

~MB~

It took some searching, but Billy finally found the two in the pet store. He pointed to the box that Scathach was hanging on to. "What'd you get?" he asked her.

She didn't answer that. Instead, the Warrior led him away from where Machiavelli was playing with a Husky puppy. "We want it to be a surprise. You'll find out afterwards."

Billy didn't protest. "Okay," he said, watching as Machiavelli tugged at the other end of the chew toy the puppy was hanging on to. "We'd better be careful, or he's going to want that puppy," he whispered to her.

"You'd better get him out of here then, cause it's a proven fact that I have no resistance to him," Scathach mumbled back.

"What do you mean?"

Scathach looked over at him. "Promise to keep a secret?" Billy nodded. She glanced over at the boy, then whispered, "I bought him a suit."

"And he doesn't know you did?" Billy said surprised.

Scathach punched him on the shoulder. "Of course he knows I bought it for him. He begged me." She pushed back at her hair. "He looks cute in it. Even I'll admit it."

"Why'd he want a suit?" Billy wondered. He caught the look that Scathach directed his way. "Besides the obvious, I mean."

Scathach smiled at Billy, her pointed teeth showing. "He wants to take you out on a date sometime. Of course, he didn't call it a date so much as a 'private dinner together so that he can wear his suit'."

"Well, I'll act surprised," Billy told her. "Come on, let's get him before he falls in love with that puppy."


	31. Chapter 31

"Nobody else wanted to come with us?" Machiavelli queried, following the two men along the edge of the lake.

"Nah, it's just the three of us," Billy called, looking back at him. "Just like when we first met." He stopped for him, seeing that the boy was falling behind. Machiavelli had been having some trouble keeping up with Black Hawk's long strides. Though the younger version of the Italian had retained its lankiness, his legs were still much shorter. "We'll have fun," Billy assured him when he finally caught up.

"Where are the boat rentals?" Machiavelli asked, skipping every few steps in order to keep up. He grasped Billy's hand to ensure that he wouldn't be left behind. "Are we close?"

"It's about half a mile around the lake," Billy said, pointing to a small building in the distance. He looked down at the Italian. Machiavelli was wheezing slightly with the effort of keeping up with the two taller men. "Ah, sorry, baby." He came to a stop. "Hey, Black Hawk! Slow up a bit. Want me to carry you the rest of the way," he asked quietly. Machiavelli shook his head. He gave the outlaw a little smile.

Black Hawk glanced back at them. He dawdled while they caught up. "Too slow?" he drawled.

"He's short," Billy defended. "Still a little boy."

Black Hawk looked down at the boy, but didn't say anything. Machiavelli felt a little bit of his happiness slip away. It felt like the Native American was making fun of him.

Billy seemed to notice the slight shift in his mood. "What kind of boat do you want to get?" he asked, giving the Italian's tiny hand a squeeze. He decided he would carry the boy anyways, so he scooped him up. "We could get a row boat or a canoe or a paddle boat," he listed off. Machiavelli looked at him quietly through his long lashes. "Ah, we can always decide when we get there. We're not too far away now." He pointed to the hut which was much more in focus now. It looked like it was almost leaning into the water.

"Why am I wearing my swim shorts if we're taking a boat?" Machiavelli asked, perking up a little in his excitement.

"We're going to toss you in," Black Hawk teased.

Billy actually smacked him, hard. "Mostly in case you fall in," Billy said, amending the other man's statement. "Don't worry, I'm putting a life preserver on you too."

"But I don't need a life preserver, I know how to swim," Machiavelli protested, but it was little use against Billy who had apparently made up his mind before they had even started out. Eventually, the boy ended up in a blue life jacket, snuggly fitted to him by Billy. The Italian had made things a little difficult by insisting on finding a preserver that matched his suit.

They decided on the paddle boat, or rather, Machiavelli got really excited by it and they gave in to him. Machiavelli suspected that Black Hawk might have felt bad for his earlier comments, otherwise the paddle boat wouldn't have been an option.

Billy got on first, followed by Machiavelli who climbed in the back. Black Hawk was the last to get on and it was the weight of his bulk that really pushed down on one side of it, meaning that the Italian was suddenly waist deep in water, when he had been siting normally a moment before. He giggled though, the sudden dunking amusing him greatly.

"I think you better come over to my side," Billy said, glancing back at him. Machiavelli scooted over to the right side of the boat more, but he was very happy to just let his legs dangle in the water. With a little maneuvering, Black Hawk was better able to shift his weight, reducing the risk of tipping the boat over.

The Italian immortal gave a little, undignified squeal when they finally took off. Billy and Black Hawk seemed to be competing with each other on who could pedal faster, making the boat practically fly over the edge of the water. Gradually, Black Hawk seemed to win out. Billy's legs weren't nearly as long as his, meaning he had to put in double the effort. As he got more tired, the boat began to move more in a leftward arch.

"Let's stop for a while," Billy said at last. He sounded a little winded and Machiavelli was almost a little insulted by the fact that Black hawk didn't say anything about it. He was sure that if it had been him, he would have been ribbed for sure by the Native American immortal. Billy helped him climb over the back of the boat into the front where they were sitting.

Machiavelli looked around. They were farther out in the lake than he'd ever been well swimming. The boat floated gently on the water. He leaned over the edge, seeing fish swim below them. He lay on his stomach by the boat's edge, trailing his fingers in the cool water.

"Do you like it?" Billy asked. He rested a hand on Machiavelli's neck. Mac glanced up and smiled, nodded. "Good."

The Kid left him to his own devices then, engaging the Native American immortal in conversation instead. Machiavelli came over to the other man's side to look over the edge. He was a little surprised when Black Hawk kept a protective hand on his arm when he leaned over the edge.

Carefully stepping through their legs, he sat on the floor of the boat and fit his feet to the pedals. He strained to turn them himself, but it was surprisingly difficult. Billy fit his feet on the edge of the pedals and helped him push. Because they were just pushing on one side, the boat turned in a small circle.

Machiavelli ended up laughing too hard to keep it up. Falling back, his head dropped onto Billy's lap. A little uncomfortable, he pushed himself up. "I wish I could pedal on my own," he said, glancing up.

"I wish you could too," Billy replied easily. "Then you could do the work and I could lie about."

"Lazy," Black Hawk drawled, poking him uncomfortably in the ribs. Billy stuck his tongue out at him.

"Come on, let's get moving. You've rested enough," the outlaw jabbed, ignoring the fact that he had called for the break in the first place. He ran a hand through Machiavelli's long locks. "Hey, partner. Are you sitting up with me or going back to the back of the boat?"

Machiavelli considered carefully. "Here," he decided finally. He patted Billy's thigh. "I want to stay up here."

"Alright," Billy said.

They toured the edge of the lake, passing their cabin at one point. Machiavelli could feel Billy's legs pumping at the pedals. He exuded strength; leaning against the American's torso, he felt very safe.

Too soon, they came back to the boat rental place. Black Hawk got off first and pulled Machiavelli off. Billy was the last to disembark, stepping slowly onto the dock. Reaching up, he pulled the life jacket off. Machiavelli kept expecting Black Hawk to let him down to the ground again, but was surprised instead when the man boosted him up onto his shoulders. They walked back to the cabin.


	32. Chapter 32

The next night, Machiavelli and Billy decided to drive into town to get dinner.

"Where did Scathach and Black Hawk go?" Machiavelli asked, fiddling with the car radio. He found an opera station and left it on, turning it down low so they could talk.

"What makes you think I know?" Billy asked, carefully avoiding the other immortal's eyes, which wasn't hard as he was driving in the dark.

The Italian looked at him suspiciously, but carried on the conversation. "Anyways, this is the first time I've ever seen you wear anything besides jeans and a t-shirt," Machiavelli said looking over at the American. "Actually, it's the first time I've seen you with your shirt tucked in either."

Billy flashed a smile. "If it makes you feel any better, I'm still wearing my jeans. Anyways, you told me you wanted me to look nice." Billy was dressed in a white button down shirt with a black blazer. He had even somehow matched a tie to his light blue eyes.

"Yeah, but when I told you that, I was just hoping you'd comb your hair," Machiavelli told him.

Billy looked vaguely insulted. "You mean I could have just ran a brush through my hair and you would have been satisfied? Why'd I dig out my old blazer?" He pulled into a spot on Main Street. "Don't get out, I'll come get you," he told the Italian, reaching into the backseat for the umbrella. He ran around the front of the car and opened Machiavelli's door.

Machiavelli took his hand and let Billy help him step out of the car. "I'm glad Scathach got this suit for me," he said happily. "I know I'll outgrow it in a week, but I love wearing suits." He followed Billy into the small Italian restaurant.

"Oh, aren't you cute?" The hostess greeted them at the front. She led them to a small table by the fireplace. "Why are boys so dressed up?"

Billy was pushing Machiavelli in front of him. He kept his hands on the Italian's shoulders, keeping him close. "My son and I went to a show right before this and now we're having a bit of a date," he explained. He pulled out a seat for the seven year old and pushed him in.

"Oh, you're sweet." The hostess patted Machiavelli's head. "Your son is absolutely precious," she told Billy, taking their orders and leaving them alone. Machiavelli looked a little embarrassed by all the attention he was receiving.

Billy grinned at Machiavelli. "You do look cute," he teased gently, "especially in your suit."

"You're not too bad yourself," Machiavelli mumbled. "Hey Billy, do you think I'm cute enough to get that puppy?" he asked hopefully. "The husky?"

"Oh, I don't know, Mac, we're already pretty cramped in the cabin with so many of us. I don't think we should bring a puppy into the mix, especially when we don't know where we'll be next month..."

"Well that's true," Machiavelli said sadly. His lower lip stuck out slightly. "I just liked the puppy, that's all, but I'll still love you..."

Billy groaned. "Oh, Mac, you're not playing fair at all."

Machiavelli nodded. "I know. But I want the hound." Machiavelli was in his element now. He wheedled happily, truly more intent on bugging the American than getting the puppy. In between pleas, he stole bites of Billy's dish and stuffed pieces of his own in his mouth. He continued, "Besides, it's my money. You wouldn't spend a dime."

Both men stopped talking when the waitress came over with their orders. Billy smiled at her, then turned his attention back to the Italian. "Which one of us would do the dog walking and the feeding and the poop scooping?"

Machiavelli knew he had him now. He pointed to himself. "I will," he said emphatically. "I really do love you," he told the American, twirling his spaghetti around his fork.

Billy stole one of his breadsticks. He ducked his head. "I love you too," he said softly, "but you don't play fair." He looked around the restaurant. The rain must have been keeping people away or they would never had been as secluded as they were. He lowered his voice to a whisper. "We do have to talk about something though."

"That thing you and Nick went off to talk about the other day?" Machiavelli speared one of the American's tortellini.

Billy was surprised. "How'd you know about that you? You were asleep."

"Not completely." The Italian smiled apologetically.

"Oh, well." Billy scratched at the back of his head, thinking carefully about what he was going to say next. "Nicholas would be able to tell you about this better, but they've elected me to break the news. The Flamels told me they've been looking into your situation in the Codex, you know, that book they tote around. I don't really know how to say this, but..."

"Am I going to die?" Machiavelli asked him. He was suddenly suspicious. "Is that why you agreed to get me the dog?"

Billy laughed gently and grabbed his fist. "Of course you're not going to die. And I never said yes to the dog," he added as a secondary thought. Machiavelli made a face, but Billy ignored it. "In fact, you might not have to age back to where you were at all."

Machiavelli narrowed his eyes. "What are you talking about? Billy, I don't understand."

Billy pinched the bridge of his nose. "Like I said, Nick would explain it better, but basically there's a spell in the Codex that could freeze you at a certain age and you wouldn't have to age all the way back if you didn't want to."

Machiavelli chewed on the breadstick he had stolen back. "So if I chose to stay at an age that wasn't my original age, would I be stuck at that age forever?"

"No, just for a year. The spell has to be renewed annually, so you'd have to keep renewing it every year. Otherwise, you'd eventually age back to how old you were before all of this started."

"Ah, yes, medieval." Machiavelli sat back in his chair, stuffed. He was struck by curiosity. "What age would you keep me at? As a kid?" He was almost surprised when Billy shook his head. "I thought you liked having me as a kid."

"I do." Billy coughed. "I do. It's been wonderful having a kid, I never thought I'd have another chance to raise a kid. But it doesn't really matter what I think, does it? Once you're an adult again, you won't need me taking care of you?"

"Oh," Machiavelli hadn't considered that. "But I like living with you," he admitted.

"I like living with you too," Billy agreed. "I also like you being older than me."

Machiavelli cocked his head. "Why?"

"Um..." Billy wrinkled his nose, then pushed back his seat and tossed some money on the table to cover the bill. "It's hard to explain," he told the Italian, leading him out into the night. "Rain's stopped," he muttered, looking up at the sky. "Let's head back."

"How old is too old?" Machiavelli wondered as they got into the car. Billy seemed to think that was a rhetorical question, because he didn't answer. He tugged on the American's sleeve. "Billy, how old can I get before I'm too old for you?"

"How old?" Billy sounded surprised. "I don't care what age you are, Mac. I thought you were great when we first met and I think you're great now."

"Oh, come on now, you liked it when I was old and white haired?" Machiavelli looked at Billy, then quickly looked out the window again. "You really want to spend the rest of your days with an old man?"

The American tilted his head to the side. "Yes."

Machiavelli felt a warm fluttery feeling in his chest. He looked toward the cabin as they pulled up. "Scathach and Black Hawk are back," he told him, pointing to the Jeep. "Do you hear barking?" he asked as they walked up the front steps. He stopped at the front door and looked at Billy. "Wait a minute, where did they go?"

"Never mind that." Billy pulled open the door. An excited ball of fur came running out, yipping at their feet. Machiavelli's face lit up, grabbing the tan husky around its waist. He laughed when it licked his face and looked up at Billy. The American was watching him with a small smile. "What are you planning on naming the puppy?" Billy asked him.


	33. Chapter 33

"Black Hawk, tell him this is a bad idea," Billy complained to the Native American over breakfast. He pointed to Machiavelli who had settled in between Scathach and Perenelle at the table. "This kid wants to name the puppy after me."

"Why would I tell him it's a bad idea, when I think it's a great idea?" Black Hawk's face was crinkled in amusement. He held out his hand across the table. Machiavelli grabbed it to shake. "I heartily approve," he told the boy, nodding sagely.

Billy protested. "It is not a great idea! It'll be confusing as all hell."

"Why? Do you respond to commands to sit and fetch?" Scathach asked him innocently. He huffed at her. Perenelle turned away, covering her mouth slightly.

"Didn't you name your dog after you?" Machiavelli asked, already knowing the answer.

"No, I was named after the dog," Billy retorted. He stamped his foot. "I mean, I got the name after the dog had it. I mean..." He looked at Black Hawk who laughed harder. He pointed at the man, calling, "You're supposed to be on my side, Slim Jim."

Black Hawk slung an arm around his shoulder. "Normally I am, Fido. But I like the Italian too." He got up and scrapped his dish down before putting it in the sink. He walked into the living room area. They could hear him whistling. Scathach and Perenelle finished soon after.

Machiavelli called the puppy over to him. "Come on Billy, I'll give you a bowl of water." The dog pounced after him.

Billy looked at Nicholas, who alone had remained quiet through the entire conversation. "How do you like that? I buy the kid a puppy and this is how he thanks me."

"Don't try to fight it. It's bigger than both of us," Nicholas advised mildly. Glancing over his shoulder, the small man got to his feet and opened the closet door behind them, rummaging through.

"What are you looking for?" Billy asked curiously, leaning over the older man's shoulder.

"A bucket and a mop," Nicholas answered, handing Billy the mop. He pointed in the vicinity of the back hallway just as Machiavelli ran up to them.

"Billy peed all over the floor," he told them, tugging on the American's shirt. "Come quick." He dashed back to hallway. The two immortals could hear him scolding the puppy. "Bad Billy, you don't pee on the floor."

"Oh, it starts," the Kid groaned, grabbing the bucket. He motioned the Italian away. "I'll clean up, you go outside and play. And take Kujo with you."

Black Hawk held the door open for the Italian. "Come on kid, we can show your friend the newest Billy."

Nicholas and Perenelle watched the two dash away. Machiavelli ran beside the puppy, obviously delighted with the feeling of the wildflowers hitting his legs. Black Hawk followed swiftly behind him, moving with an easy grace that looked odd for such a muscled man. The Flamels turned back to the American.

"Should have put his nose in it like my mother used to do with the Kid," Billy mumbled, mopping the floor clean. "And don't even start," he cut off Scathach, waving the mop at her. She smiled mischievously. He threw the water from the bucket out the back door.

"Billy," Nicholas called. "Niccolò's going to be gone all day. Do you want me to teach you some alchemy now? We never got a chance to before you took him on the trip."

Billy straightened. "That's right, I did ask you to teach me. I'd forgotten that." He smiled so that his prominent front teeth were showing. He rubbed his hands together. "Let's surprise Mac."

~MB~

Billy came into the kitchen late that night to find Machiavelli sitting at the table reading. "What are you doing up so late?" he yawned.

"I think Billy's lonely," Machiavelli answered, pointing to the crate where the puppy was sleeping. "So I'm keeping him company for a little bit."

"Want some ice cream?" Billy asked, scratching at his midriff. The boy nodded eagerly. "What's going in your book so far?" the American call out as he dug through the freezer.

"Felicity's sad because her mom's planning on leaving again..."

Billy hmmed, setting the carton down on the counter to thaw. "Moving around is hard when you're a kid," he allowed. "I went from New York to Indiana to Kansas to New Mexico before I was a teenager."

"Wasn't that difficult?" Machiavelli asked, looking up at the outlaw. He fiddled with the gold pendant.

"Not so much for me," Billy hedged. The American paused what he was doing. "I didn't like moving around so much, but I could deal with it. I made friends wherever we went. But Josie had a rough time of it. He didn't have my easy charm." Billy grinned without a trace of humility. "Poor Josie, I tried to be his friend, but after our mother died we were put in separate homes and I hardly ever saw him after that."

"Billy?" Machiavelli asked. The puppy looked up from his place by the stove. "Not you," he told him, patting the dog's ears absentmindedly.

"What's up, Mac?" Billy picked up the Husky, looked into his eyes, and kissed him on the snout. "Go pee on Black Hawk," he commanded. Billy the Puppy just tilted his head. Billy gave it up as a bad job and put him back on the ground. Machiavelli watched the exchange. "You had a question?" Billy asked the Italian.

"Huh? Oh, yeah, I was wondering where you lived now. Here in the cabin?" He got out two bowls.

Billy took the carton of ice cream off the counter. He shook his head. "I have places like this all over the country. Whenever I get tired of one place, I move out again."

"You just move around all the time?" Machiavelli couldn't imagine it. He had stayed in the same country for hundreds of years, never straying farther than he had to. He couldn't imagine moving around in such a way.

Billy shrugged. "I stay in places for as long as I can, but eventually people start getting suspicious and I have to go again." He handed the Italian his bowl of ice cream and tossed in a spoon. The spoon clanged on the edges.

"But you didn't like moving around when you were a kid. Why do it as an adult? There are other ways around it."

Billy pulled a face. "Part of moving around was to keep people from getting suspicious, but part of moving around was to keep from getting lonely."

"Lonely?" Machiavelli couldn't imagine Billy being lonely. If words floated above people's shoulders, Billy's words would have been danger, adventure, excitement, but never lonely.

Billy averted his gaze. "You know, I lived in once place I really enjoyed, nearly fifty years ago. I had never imagined I'd end up in New England, let alone New Hampshire, but I set up a place there and ended up staying. It was beautiful there, all forests, you think, but you go around a bend in the road or over a hill and suddenly you're in the middle of some farmer's field."

Machiavelli noticed a certain reverence in Billy's blue eyes. "Why'd you leave if you liked it so much?" he whispered.

The look shifted in Billy's eyes, turning them flint-like. "Got close to a neighboring family," he said. "They'd have me over for holidays and functions, the like. The head of the house, the matriarch was an Irish woman like my mother. They used to joke with me, ask me when I was going to settle down." He shifted his shoulders uncomfortably. "They had a daughter, Erin. I think they thought I'd marry her. But I knew that wouldn't be fair to her all. So I left one day, didn't tell anyone, just left."

"Have you ever gone back there?" Machiavelli wondered out loud. He searched Billy's face in earnest, looking for the answer.

Billy grunted. "A couple of times to see how they were making it. I'd leave money if it seemed like they were having a hard time of it. But I never let them see me." He paused. "I still own that place. Maybe I could bring you up there some time." He glanced at Machiavelli through the fringe of his hair.

Machiavelli nodded. "I'd like that he," he said softly. He pushed his book closer to the American. "Will you read to me now?"

Billy nodded, glancing at the cover again, and cracked open the book. "Where were you?" he asked, tracing a finger down the page. Machiavelli pointed halfway down the page. "Alright," Billy mumbled. He cleared his throat and began. Unconsciously, the Italian leaned in closer to watch his progress in the book.


	34. Chapter 34

Machiavelli tugged on Scathach's arm. "We're going down to the park. Want to come?" He looked hopefully at her, giving her puppy eyes. The Italian immortal seemed to exert a weird pull over the other immortals in this form, influencing them to do things they wouldn't otherwise do. The only one who seemed outside of this influence was Black Hawk.

The Warrior looked up. "Who else is going? Just you and Billy?"

"And Billy," Machiavelli added promptly.

"He means the hound," Billy explained, walking by. He drew the boy closer to him, looking him carefully in his gray eyes. "Mac, don't you think we should change the dog's name, before he gets too attached to it? And I spend the rest of my life playing second fiddle to a pooch?"

"I guess it's a little confusing having two Billys," Machiavelli allowed.

"Confusing! It's been driving me nuts," Billy said. "I told you it was madness."

"Okay, well what are we going to call him?" Machiavelli asked looking at the puppy. The husky looked up at them, cocking his head. "We could call him Einstein. He looks intelligent."

Scathach shook her head, sitting down beside Billy. "No more people names. If we're going to give him a different name, I don't want to mix it up with any of the people I've met over the years."

"Okay." Machiavelli ticked the options off on his fingers. "There's Lupo, Drago, Gaio, or Icarus..."

"Icarus would be a cool name," Billy interrupted.

Scathach nodded. "Icarus," she called, snapping her fingers. The dog just looked at her.

"Come on, Icarus. Come here," Machiavelli called. The dog laid down and Billy groaned. He pantomimed playing a fiddle and threw his hands up in the air. Machiavelli patted him on the arm. "We'll figure out something." He turned back to Scathach. "So are you coming with us?"

Scatty sighed and nodded.

~MB~

Machiavelli fell backwards into the air, pulled back to the ground from where he had rested in the heavens. He swung backwards, hit his limit, and felt Billy push him forward with a mighty shove.

"Billy," Machiavelli called in between pushes. "Do I look older?" He whooped when Billy gave him an extra strong push.

"Yeah, a little bit older," Billy admitted. "Have you given any thought to what you're going to say to John yet?"

The Italian hesitated. "I think I'm just going to wait until he brings it up and play it by ear," he said finally.

"You, play things by ear?" Billy drawled, giving him a final push before he leaned against the side of the swing set. "You've been spending too much time with me."

"You bet," Machiavelli laughed, pumping his legs to get himself higher.

"Are you nervous?" Billy asked. Machiavelli nodded, swinging past him. "Well, good luck, cause here he comes," Billy told him. He waved his hat at the boy and waved it in mock salute. John ran over.

"Hi!" Machiavelli yelled down. He let go off the swing entirely, waving his hands frantically before grabbing back on.

Billy clutched his chest. "I wish you wouldn't do that," he told the Italian. He started the little boy off on the swing, pulling him back and giving him a firm push. "How are things John?"

"Fine," he called back, leaning backward to look at the American and sat up quickly. "Why?"

"Just wondering," Billy drawled. "I like you, John; you're a good boy. You deserve a good life." The boy flushed happily, but refused to look at either of them, looking instead at the blue skies. Billy stepped away from the two, and untied the dog's leash. "I'm going walk The Pup," he called, moving away from the swings.

"Why does he call your dog 'The Pup'?" John asked his friend curiously.

Machiavelli stopped pumping for a minute so that the other boy could catch up. "Well, he doesn't like to call him Billy, because I named the dog after him. So he's decided to call him Pup, Billy the Pup. Tells them apart, see?"

"Billy the Pup, like Billy the Kid?" John called.

The Italian nearly fell out of his swing. He schooled his expression carefully. "Who's Billy the Kid? Some thug?"

John twisted a little on his swing, which caused it to go off track. "No, he's an outlaw," he defended.

"What's the difference?"

"Well," John thought carefully before he spoke again. "A thug doesn't get in trouble with the law but is bad, an outlaw gets in trouble with the law but most people think their good."

"You think he's a good guy, huh?" Machiavelli asked with a faint smile.

"I think he's a great guy," John yelled, jumping off of his swing and landing in the sand.

Both boys watched as Billy ran by, chasing the ball that Billy had thrown. Moments later, the human Billy ran after the dog. "Talking about me?" he asked as he jogged by. John laughed and Machiavelli fell out of his swing. The tall boy stood up, carefully brushing the sand off his shorts.

"What'll we do?" the Italian asked the boy.

"Want to go play with the Pup?" John asked. He looked over at Billy and the husky, then back at Machiavelli.

Machiavelli smoothed over the expression on his face. "We could play with the dog," he said carefully, "but let's go over by the river first. We should talk."

"Okay," John said happily, missing the look on the other boy's face. "I'll race you!" And he ran off.

Machiavelli followed him unhappily, certain that this was going to end well. He cocked his head as they leaned against the railing. "Do you believe in magic?" he asked.

John looked at him strangely. "I guess so. Why are you asking?" He frowned. "Have you gotten taller?" he asked.

"I have," Machiavelli acknowledged. "But it's only fair, seeing as today is kind of my birthday."

John was confused. "I thought it was your birthday that day that I first met you? You got that gold pendant from Billy."

"Remember when you said that Billy and I seem a bit odd?" Machiavelli's voice was soft and gentle. He pushed on through the younger boy's bashful protests. "We are odd," he laughed.

"Who are you?" John whispered.

He paused, reading the language of John's face. The boy looked half scared, half excited. He decided he'd better do it completely, if he was going to do it at all. "My name is Niccolò Machiavelli and I'm 545 years old."

"You're pulling my leg," John said weakly. "You couldn't possibly be that old. You're a kid like me."

"Well, I'm stuck in my younger body right now, which is why Billy takes care of me, but I age a year every week." The Italian took it as a good sign that John hadn't started running yet, but felt compelled to ask if was all right.

John nodded mutely. He said nothing.

Machiavelli pointed to the American playing fetch with the husky. "Ask Billy to tell you what's going on. He'll tell you the same thing." He lowered his voice. "I know this is a lot. And I wouldn't blame you if you wanted to get away from us. But we are trying to help you." He got to his feet.

John tilted his head. "Us?" he asked. "There are more of you?" Machiavelli looked over at Billy. John's eyes widened. "Billy?"

"And the others." Machiavelli supplied.

"I think I should go home now," John said faintly.

"Okay," the Italian said, jamming his hands into his pockets. He watched the boy run off. He turned to see Billy watching the boy go too. Billy looked over at him and waved slightly. The Italian began to pick his way towards the American, petting the dog's head as it trotted beside him.

Billy touched him lightly on the shoulder. "It's a lot to take in," he soothed. "Let's give him some time."


	35. Chapter 35

"Are you sure you can teach me to ride a horse?" Machiavelli asked the others worriedly. He looked around the Jeep. All the others looked perfectly calm, but the Italian was feeling more nervous by the minute.

"You'll be fine," Billy soothed. He held the Italian's hand.

"Unless the horse bucks you," Black Hawk called from the wheel. Machiavelli whimpered and Billy smacked the Native American on the back of the head sharply.

"Don't listen to him," Scathach said, turning around to look at Billy and Machiavelli. She smiled, showing her pointed teeth. "We're all here to help you."

"Yeah, all of us," Black Hawk admitted from the wheel.

"Why are you so worried?" Billy asked. "Surely you had to ride horses when you were traveling all over Italy as a politician."

Machiavelli was holding his hand tightly. "I was never good at it. Besides, I was always in a carriage, not on the horse."

Billy leaned forward to talk to Scathach. Quietly, so Machiavelli wouldn't hear, he asked, "Is this a good idea? He seems really scared."

She leaned back. "I think he'll have fun once we get him going. Remember, there's a lot of things he's done recently that scared him and he's always had fun in the end."

"True," Billy agreed reluctantly. He leaned back in his seat and threw his arm around Machiavelli. The Italian leaned into his touch. Billy rubbed his arm roughly. "You're going to have fun, Mac. I'm going to put you on the gentlest horse. Nobody's going to make you do anything you don't want to."

Machiavelli winced when they went over a big bump in the road. "And you'll stay with me the whole time?" Billy nodded. "Maybe we should just go back. What about Pup? And John?"

"The Flamels are watching your dog," Scathach broke in. "And you need some time away from John."

The Italian turned to Billy. "You were a good rider, weren't you?"

Billy smiled. "I was a great rider. I could pick things up off the ground, turn around in the saddle, shoot a gun..."

~MB~

"Don't you want to ride horses like Scathach and Black Hawk? I could just watch from the sidelines," Machiavelli trailed behind Billy. He breathed deeply. The stable smelled like hay, leather, and just the faintest traces of manure. "You like riding horses, you don't have to babysit me..."

Billy slung his arm around Machiavelli. "I can ride horses whenever. I want to be with you." He steered the boy towards the stall at the end of the stable. "We're not even going to put you on a horse yet. You're just going to get used to her."

They stopped in front of the stall. Machiavelli looked up at the horse. "She's awfully big, isn't she?"

Billy petted the horse's muzzle. "She's the gentlest horse they have. I checked." He picked Machiavelli up, guiding the boy's hand over the horse's neck muscles. The Italian sat on the stall door, keeping one hand wrapped around Billy's shoulders and patting the horse with his other hand. The mare bobbed her head up and down appreciatively. "See, she likes you already."

"What's her name?" Machiavelli asked, swinging his leg back around the stall door and dropped down to the ground.

"They call her Wind Blown." Billy pressed his thumbs into the core of an apple and split it into two parts. He handed one part to the Italian. "Hold it out on your hand, but keep your fingers flat."

Machiavelli did as he was told. He giggled a little when the horse's tongue brushed up against his hand. He looked over at Billy, who'd begun to brush down the horse. "Can I help?" he asked. He felt shy, as though he had met Billy for the first time.

Billy pushed a stool up beside the horse. "Here," he said, settling behind Machiavelli. He showed the Italian which brushes to use and how to use them. The outlaw ducked under the horse's head and began to work on the other side of the horse.

Machiavelli smiled, hearing him begin to sing Roy Orbison songs. He wanted to join in, but lost his nerve, and instead hummed along with the American.

~MB~

After lunch time, Billy carried Machiavelli on his shoulders. They'd caught up with the other two immortals, Scathach accompanying them back to the stable and Black Hawk continuing to ride his horse in the bigger paddock.

Machiavelli chattered excitedly to both of the adult immortals. At the stable entrance, he swung off of Billy's shoulders and dropped lightly to the ground. "This is my horse," he told Scathach, pulling her behind him.

"You still nervous?" she asked him, nudging the Italian with the tip of her boot.

Machiavelli looked up. "Not too much," he said. "You're going to stay with me, aren't you?" he asked, looking back and forth between Billy and Scathach.

"Absolutely," Billy answered, leading Wind Blown down the stable aisle. When they were out in the small paddock. "You know if you were just a bit taller, I'd have you step into the stirrup and pull yourself up, but you're still a little too small for that." He hefted Machiavelli up. "You always get on a horse from the left side," he told Machiavelli. "And sit with your back straight."

Machiavelli felt the familiar wave of nervousness sweep over on him as he sat on the saddle of the horse. Billy patted his thigh, settling his other hand on the Italian's back. Scathach handed him the reins. "You've got to hold them firmly, but not tightly."

"Relax, Mac," Billy soothed. "To get the horse to begin to walk, you squeeze its sides with your lower legs. Scathach's going to lead you and I'll be right here. When you're ready," he said patiently.

Machiavelli took a deep breath and squeezed the horse's sides. Instantly, the mare began to walk forward. He glanced at Billy nervously, but let the horse move forward. He felt some of the tension leak out of his body. Billy kept his hand on the small of his back, reassuring him.


	36. Chapter 36

"Billy?" Machiavelli's head poked through the trapdoor. He climbed up a rung higher on the ladder, feeling a bit shaky not being on solid ground. He scrambled all the way up, feeling a little better in the attic, where at least the floor was nailed down. Small puffs of dust rose up with each step. "What are you doing up here?"

Billy poked his head around an old clothing rack. Seeing the Italian, he smiled and climbed over a box, coming over to where Machiavelli was waiting. He helped the Italian over to a cleared portion of the floor, where he could stand up straight so that the boy was all the way into the attic. "What are you doing?" Machiavelli asked again.

"Well, things are getting awfully crowded in our little cabin," Billy said, explaining but not really answering his question.

Machiavelli turned in a tight circle. Billy sure had accumulated a lot of stuff for a single man, though so too had the Italian over his time, so he supposed he wasn't being very fair. "So you decided to come up here?" he asked mildly.

Billy laughed. "I was thinking we could make this into a bedroom for Scatty. But now that I'm up here, I think it's too small." He led the Italian over to the back corner.

"It is a bit small up here," Machiavelli admitted. "But not as hot as I thought it would be up here."

Billy's voice was muffled. "I insulated it when I built this place. And I put in windows on both sides." He looked up for a moment before bending back over the chest he was combing through.

Machiavelli turned around looking at the beams of the ceiling. "You built this place, Billy?" he asked, amazed.

"Mmm," Billy acknowledged. He pulled something out of the chest. "Hey, Mac, here's the saddle I had before I was made immortal." He ran his fingers over the faded leather. Machiavelli settled down beside him. Billy ran his fingers through the boy's hair. "Did you like riding horses yesterday?" he asked softly.

"I did. We should go again sometime." He looked into the box that Billy was going through. "What else is in here?"

Billy flashed a smile. "Lots of stuff. For instance, here's my old gun. Don't worry it's not loaded."

The Italian took the gun carefully, though Billy's hands remained on top of his. The American showed him how to pop open the chamber of the gun. Machiavelli experimentally pushed the chamber closed again with his thumb. It made a loud click as it snapped back in place.

Billy had gone back to rifling through the box by that point, so Machiavelli put aside the gun and leaned into the box, watching the American shift objects over. He grabbed a small cigar box at the bottom of the chest and painstakingly extracted it. "What's this?"

Billy flipped the box around and smiled, rubbing the worn corners of the box. He stood up, helping the Italian to his feet. "It's pictures, all the pictures I have really. Let's go downstairs and I'll show them to you."

Machiavelli dusted his pants off carefully and stepped through a coat rack, forging his own shortcut. He tilted his head. "You know Billy, we could build an extension on this cabin. For Scathach and maybe an extra room for Black Hawk too. That way you won't have to share with him anymore."

Billy followed him down the ladder and pushed him towards the living room. They settled on the couch, the husky slumping on the floor next to them. "That's an idea," Billy agreed. "I'd love to have my own bedroom again. Anyways," he opened up the cigar box, "I'm sure you already know this, but photographs were fairly expensive when I was growing up. Now, I lost that tintype, but I've still got these." He held up the first picture and gazed at it for a moment before handing it to Machiavelli.

The Italian immortal took the picture from Billy's hand, careful not to touch anything but the edges. The picture showed the profile of a woman with fair hair and a thin nose; Machiavelli noticed something familiar in her clear colored eyes. He looked up at the American immortal. "Billy is this-?"

"My mother," Billy supplied. He looked over the Italian's shoulder. With the tip of his finger, he traced her jawline.

"She's really pretty," Machiavelli said warmly. He looked at the picture again, noting the similarities and differences between the woman in the picture and the man beside him. He noticed the similar features and twinkle in their eyes. Machivaelli, who had always been told he looked like his father, imagined that this must be a source of comfort to the American.

Billy gave him a different picture. Machiavelli looked into the stern, worn out face of an older man. There was similarities here too, buried but present, but there was none of the warmth that had radiated from the other picture. This man's muddy brown eyes stared directly at the camera. "My brother," Billy said. "Shortly before he died."

"He doesn't look like you very much," Machiavelli muttered. The man in the picture was frowning slightly. He couldn't imagine Billy ever looking this serious, at least not for as long as it took to take a picture. Even in the famous tin type, there was a hint of a smile in his face.

"Josie was always serious," Billy reminded him, somehow catching his thought. He took the picture back, examining it critically. "When I found out he was sick, his last couple of years, I went to visit him. He didn't have any family left and I didn't think it was right for him to die alone. I think it was kind of a nasty shock to him, me showing up, but we talked through it."

Machiavelli nodded. He pulled a picture out of the stack and smiled. This photo was in color, capturing the image of Billy and Black Hawk outside of what was clearly a Springsteen concert. Billy was leaning against the Native American in a similar pose to the Born to Run cover.

"Perenelle brought up some pictures for me to add to my collection," Billy told him. He took an envelope out of his pocket and handed it to the Italian.

Machiavelli opened the envelope curiously. "When did you guys take all of these?" He looked at the first picture and recognized the motel room they had stayed in. His three year old self was looking at the camera, leaning heavily on Billy. "I remember you taking pictures, but not all of these."

"Remember us taking this one?" Billy directed him toward the second picture.

The Italian grinned, looking at himself holding a Nerf gun over Nicholas's still body. He had put a foot on the Frenchman's chest. "Oh, that's when I shot him." Billy set aside the picture. "Why are you doing that?"

"Nick wants to send it to some French friends of his. They've been asking what you're like."

"Germain?" Machiavelli asked absently, shuffling through the pictures. There was a couple from the amusement park and the museum and one from right after they went rafting. He was absolutely drenched, but smiling.

"That's the one," Billy agreed. He held up the last picture in the bunch. "You were so sleepy in this one. You probably don't remember us taking it."

The Italian examined it. "That was the night before we took our trip, isn't it?" he asked slowly. Billy nodded.

They heard the car door slam. "Sounds like they're back from their trip to town," Billy said mildly, collecting up his photographs. Machiavelli leaned in close, taking Billy's hand. He squealed when the American pulled him to his feet.

~MB~

"Billy!" Machiavelli called through the door. He struggled with the squirming bundle in his arms.

"Oh, no," Billy groaned. He looked at the cat that the European immortal was clutching to his chest. Anticipating the Italian's motives, he tried to cut him off early. "What's that?"

"Our newest addition to the family?" Machiavelli asked hopefully.

Billy looked over at Nicholas Flamel for help. The Frenchman gave him no help what-so-ever, shrugging his shoulders. Billy tried to broach the subject carefully. "I don't know if we have room for another animal, Mac. Besides what about The Pup? He's not going to like a feline addition to the family."

Machiavelli set the cat down on the ground and began to open a can of dog food for the stray. The cat, a silver tabby, slunk under one of the kitchen chairs and sat there, watching the people in the room carefully. "But Billy," Machiavelli stressed patiently, "I've already introduced George and Billy."

"George?" Black Hawk asked.

Billy put his head in his hands. "Oh god, he's named it. Now we're going to have a cat."

Scathach nodded sagely as she settled on the floor beside the tabby. "Can't get rid of it once it has a name," she told the room. "Why George though?" she asked the Italian, watching him coax the cat out.

"He looks like a George," Machiavelli explained.

"George has no balls," Billy pointed out.

Black Hawk whistled. "Awkward," he mumbled under his breath.

Billy looked at Machiavelli. Machiavelli looked at Billy. The American gave in. "I guess we'll have to call her Georgette then," he conceded.

"Yes!" The Italian immortal threw his arms around Billy. "I love you!" he hollered.

Billy sat there with a stunned smile on his face. "But no more pets," he told the Italian sternly. We don't have room for anybody else in this cabin."

Machiavelli agreed easily. He gave Billy a wet kiss on his cheek and scampered off with the cat in his arms. The puppy followed behind him, trotting up the stairs behind the Italian.

Billy turned to Black Hawk. He rubbed at his eyes tiredly. "I'm thinking," he said. "That we should build an addition onto this cabin if we're all going to stay here. Do you want to help?"

"I think I'd better. This cabin is getting more crowded by the day," Black Hawk huffed from his place.


	37. Chapter 37

The next morning, Machiavelli came down cradling Georgette like a baby. Georgette had a bemused expression on her face, bearing it for only a moment before jumping down lightly. Independent minded, the cat followed behind the immortal, stalking airily behind him as he slipped through the pantry hallway to the kitchen. The Italian immortal carefully filled the animals' dishes with dry food before looking around. "Where's Billy?" he asked Perenelle.

"Black Hawk's taking him for his morning walk," Perenelle answered, sipping from her coffee mug. She smiled and he knew that she was joking with him.

"Not the dog," Machiavelli laughed. "Though I was wondering where he was too. But my Billy. The Kid."

Nicholas looked up. "He went to town to get the building permit and supplies for the other cabin. Scathach went with him," he added, answering the Italian's next question. Satisfied, Machiavelli sat down beside the French couple, pulling the plate of pastries closer to him.

"I thought we were just putting an extension on," Machiavelli said, coaxing Georgette over with a piece of bacon. The cat sniffed at it but didn't eat it until he tore the bacon until smaller pieces. Machiavelli rubbed behind her ears.

"That was the plan-," Nicholas began.

"But then we got a call, saying we were going to have company." Scathach broke in. She came into the kitchen, Billy trailing closely behind her. The Warrior remained standing, leaning her elbows on Nicholas's shoulders.

Machiavelli straightened up, distracted. "Who's coming to visit?"

"Germain and Joan," Scathach said happily. "He's doing an American tour for his music and they worked into his schedule a week off. So they'll be able to stop and stay with us for the week."

The boy knocked his fork off the table by accident. He leaned over to grab it and Billy bent over too. The American nudged Machiavelli. "What's the matter?" he asked, pitching his voice low. The other immortals continued talking. Machiavelli could hear the happy buzz of their words.

"I don't think they're going to like me," he whispered back, straightening up. "Want to go play fetch with the Pup with me? Black Hawk's back."

"Sure," Billy agreed. He downed his coffee with one gulp. "We'll be outside," he told the others. He followed Machiavelli out into the bright sunlight, waving at Black Hawk. "Let him loose," he called. Black Hawk unclipped the husky.

Machiavelli tossed a stick and the dog ran to grab it. Turning to Billy, he looked at the American. "I don't think the Germains are going to like me," he said carefully. "Just a month ago, we were on opposite sides."

"So was I."

"I blew up their house. Sicced ancient warriors and a corpse eating monster on their friend. Tried to kidnap their guests."

"Could happen to anybody."

"And then I sent a legion of stone monsters on them," Machiavelli finished, tossing the stick for a third time.

Billy tugged the stick out of the husky's mouth when he came back again. He faked the dog out, before tossing the stick in the opposite direction. "Nobody's perfect," he said cheerfully. "But we won't know if they like you until they get here."

"I suppose."

"Hey, Mac," Billy called out cheerfully. "I can't say if they'll like you or not, but I know this: I'll always love you." The American picked him up and swung him around. Machiavelli gasped in surprise, but began to laugh, especially when Billy began to swing him up and down. The Pup yipped around them, chasing Machiavelli's heels. Billy beamed, settling Machiavelli back on his feet. "Guess who I ran into when I was in town?"

"John?" Machiavelli guessed correctly. "So what happened? Did you talk?"

"We did. He asked where you've been lately." Billy grinned at him. "I told him we were building the cabin, asked if he wanted to help us build it."

"Help us build it?" Machiavelli questioned. "I thought you were going to make it."

"You're going to help me, aren't you?" Billy asked the Italian. "I helped my stepfather build our house in Kansas and in New Mexico. I was about your age at the time."

Machiavelli tilted his head, then smiled. "I'd like to help you," he agreed shyly.

"Good. The supplies won't be here until the afternoon. We can swing by and grab John if you want. Maybe we can convince him to work for a wage." Billy smiled at the Italian. They headed back to the main cabin. "I'm going to read until lunch."

Machiavelli trotted along beside him. "I saw that book. It's all in German. Why'd you decide to learn German?" Machiavelli asked. He arched an eyebrow. "Why not Italian?"

Billy laughed. "Italian's too close to Spanish. I was getting all of my la's and il's and lo's mixed up. German was a relief after all that. Completely different." He jumped over the back of the couch and settled into the cushions. The boy pulled himself over the back of the couch and tumbled into Billy's lap. The American grunted a little, shifting Machiavelli so that the boy's knee was not driving itself into the man's crotch.

If Machiavelli noticed any of this, he didn't acknowledge it. "So you picked up German easily?" Machiavelli asked, looking at the American before grabbing the book away. He looked at the ink drawings on the inside of the book.

"No," Billy commented. "They say 'Deutsche Sprache, schwere Sprache'. German is difficult," he translated, seeing the expression on the Italian's face. "But I like it. English is a germanically based language. I never got to spend a lot of time in school. There's still a lot I'd like to know."

"So what's the book about?" Machiavelli questioned.

"Die Weisse Rose was a nonviolent resistance movement that happened during the time of Nazi Germany. They sent around leaflets so that people wouldn't be afraid to resist the Nazis. They were tried as enemies to the state and were beheaded." Billy frowned. "Sometimes I get to thinking at night that I should have done more. People were getting persecuted everywhere and I did nothing to help them."

"I didn't do anything either," Machiavelli reminded him softly. "I had long stopped caring for humanity. Remember the faceless masses?" Billy nodded. Machiavelli sighed as he spun the book around on the table, but looked up with a muted smile. "You reminded me of what it meant to be human. I won't forget it again."

"We bring out the best in each other," Billy agreed. He smiled and the corners of his eyes crinkled. "Want to teach me Italian some time?"


	38. Chapter 38

Machiavelli helped Perenelle clear up after lunch. The Italian longed to join Billy and Black Hawk in the backyard, but he had been conditioned strongly by his mother to help out the women in his life. "Go ahead," the Frenchwoman said, catching him looking out the backdoor. "But tie up your dog, you don't want him getting underfoot when you're putting the house together."

"Okay." Machiavelli tied the Pup to the front porch and ducked through the house and out the back door, running to reach Billy and Black Hawk. The two immortals were standing in a clearing behind the cabin, looking over a large piece of blue paper. He felt suddenly shy as he approached the two men. "Are you starting to build it right now?"

Billy rubbed the back of his head. "Black Hawk wants to get it built sooner rather than later. And with the extra people coming now, it's probably a good idea to get it done quickly."

"It's not that I don't like living in Billy's armpit," Black Hawk drawled from his place against a tree. "But things are getting crowded in that cabin."

Billy smacked him with a trowel. Turning to Machiavelli, he motioned to the clearing around them. "Before we get John, I want to put the piping in."

"Why?" Machiavelli asked curiously.

Billy crouched down by the Italian. "Cause I want to put the pipes in with magic," he whispered, "and I can't do that with the kid around without seriously freaking him out."

"Ah," Machiavelli nodded. "That makes sense. So what are you going to do, use magic to move the dirt faster?"

"No," Nicholas said from behind Machiavelli. The Italian jumped slightly. "We're going to use transmutation to soften the ground and push the pipes in all at once."

"Makes sense," Machiavelli said, glad not to be digging. He watched with some interest as Nicholas touched the ground and the air around them came alive with the scent of mint. Billy forced the piping into the ground with minimal effort. The whole process took five minutes.

Billy slapped his hands together. "Let's just mark the foundation and then we can go get John." He took up a stake and tied a cord around it. He pounded the stake into place. He measured out the proper length of the wall on the ground and positioned the stake in the proper spot. "Here, Mac, I'll hang on to this and you can pound it in." He handed Machiavelli a mallet. "Bang it in."

Machiavelli took the mallet and began gently tapping on the stake. He looked up at the American, who raised his eyebrows slightly. Machiavelli paused, repositioned his hand on the handle, and continued to tap in the stake with light strokes.

"Promise me that when it starts to snow, you'll let me get my coat?" Billy joked. "I know we're immortal, and we've got all the time in the world, but Mac, we don't have all the time in the world."

Machiavelli arched his eyebrows, continuing a steady stream of taps. "Are you insinuating that I'm too slow?"

"No, I'm saying it outright."

"I'm just afraid I'm going to hurt you," Machiavelli said.

"Ah," Billy waved his hands around in the air before grabbing the stake again, "hit me with your best shot."

"You just watch me..."

~MB~

"So, you did this with your stepfather?" Machiavelli asked Billy with some interest. Together, he and John hefted the last concrete block into place. Billy pressed the block into the cement, carefully minding his bandaged thumbs.

"This isn't quite how we made our cabin," Billy grunted. "Things were different back then. But it's roughly similar."

"Have you ever built a cabin before?" John asked Black Hawk.

The Native American looked up, surprised to be spoken to by the shy boy. "I made a whole slew of them a couple of years back on an Indian reservation. But I'm following Billy's lead on this one." He grinned. "If the cabin collapses and everyone dies, it'll be on his head." Black Hawk moved off to grab the planks of wood they were using to make the floor.

John stared after the Native American, clearly not sure what to make of the muscled man.

Billy settled a hand on John's shoulder. "Black Hawk's an acquired taste. He means no harm." John nodded mutely.

"Are we going to put the walls on now?" Machiavelli called from his place by the foundation.

"No," Billy answered back, beckoning him closer. "We have to wait for the cement to dry before we can drill the floor into it. But we can make the walls now. They're built separately from the floor and foundation anyways." He explained how they were going to make the frames then stabilize them with support beams.

The two boys listened to him with rapt attention. The Italian glanced back at the foundation. What his American friend was describing seemed impossible, but Billy seemed completely confident. By his side, John listened to every word intently. When Billy was done explaining what they needed to do, John set to work, carefully nailing together the sections.

Billy caught up to Machiavelli. Under the pretense of checking the Italian's work, Billy leaned over him and whispered in his ear. "Seems happy, doesn't he?" Machiavelli nodded, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Maybe he'll be an architect someday."

"Maybe. I'm going to go check on dinner," Machiavelli said, brushing off his hands. He passed John as he went back towards the main cabin.

John wandered over to Billy's side. He watched Billy checking the measurements. The American felt the boy's gaze on him and looked up. "So, Mac told you about us?" Billy asked curiously.

The boy tilted his head. "He said you had were immortal, that you had lived for hundreds of years." He dropped his voice. "How can any of that be true?"

Billy let go of the board he was working with. "Do you believe in magic?" the American asked the boy.

"Nick asked that. I don't know," John whispered.

"Let me show you." Billy rubbed his hands together. Sparks fell from his hands, a spicy scent filling the air. All at once, the flooring that they had been nailing down lifted into the air and settled into place one by one. John watched in open-mouthed wonder as individual nails punched into place. Billy smiled down at him.

"Kind of makes anything seem possible, doesn't it?" Billy said happily.


	39. Chapter 39

Once John had seen their "magic" in action, the boy had a hard time understanding why the immortals would build the cabin by hand. Billy tried to explain, with little success.

"It's better to do things with your own hands," he explained, while nailing down the wall Black Hawk held up for him. "If you do everything with magic, you lose the feeling of accomplishment you get from doing something good."

John shook his head. "What?"

Black Hawk laughed. "I'm with you, kid." He addressed Billy. "We could have finished this yesterday. It's not like there are people around to see us."

Machiavelli stopped his hammering for a moment with a certain reluctance to observe the conversation. Once he had gotten over his initial fear of doing something wrong, he had found a certain amount of joy in hammering. Each nail head had Dr. John Dee's face on it. The Italian had purposefully stayed out of the conversation, preferring to watch and assess. Now he spoke up, helping Billy ground the conversation.

"Your aura is like a battery in a phone. The more you use the phone, the more drained it gets. Eventually, you can recharge your aura, but it takes time." He paused and looked away from John. The boy seemed fascinated. "It's better to only use your aura for when you really need it."

"Besides, it's fun to build things," Billy chimed in. He climbed two rungs higher on the ladder he had been standing on and began to secure the corners. He paused and cocked his head. "Aren't you having fun?" he asked John.

The boy grinned. "I am. But I don't have any other options."

Billy laughed.

~MB~

"Are you done for the day?" Scathach asked incredulously a couple of hours later, watching Billy and the two boys lay down their tools. "I just started an hour ago. You guys are leaving me?"

"We're going to go down to the lake for a little bit since this is the hottest part of the day," Billy told her.

"Is it hot?" Scathach stuck her head out the window and looked toward the sky.

Billy lowered his voice so that John, who was staring at Scathach, wouldn't hear. "We can't all have your superior genes." He gently pushed the younger boy towards the lake. Machiavelli had already headed in that direction, but John seemed equally fascinated with and afraid of the Warrior. John broke his stare and headed for the water at last. Billy lowered his voice again. "He's in love," he said, nodding to the boy and smiling.

Scathach huffed. "He looks at me like I'm the first woman he's ever seen."

"Have you seen some of the women in town?" Billy laughed. "You just might be the first." He ducked as she struck at him.

"Careful, Billy," Black Hawk called. "If she had wanted to kill you, you'd be dead by now. Best not to give her a reason."

"Yeah, yeah. Keep putting in the insulation, buddy." Billy clapped him on the back. He leaned in to gently kiss Scathach on the cheek before jumping out the front door and down into the grass. He took off, running with surprising agility, swinging around the main cabin and flat footing it down the incline.

"Incoming!" John shouted. Both boys swam desperately to the left, watching as Billy ran towards them. The American pulled off his shirt and flung it behind him, somehow pulled off both boots and made his way down the dock, stopped at the end of the dock and belly flopped into the lake.

Machiavelli expected Billy to come up right away and was surprised when the man didn't. John splashed around happily once the immediate threat of being squashed was out of the way, but the Italian waited for Billy to come up again out of the water and felt a twinge of fear as the moments ticked by and there was no sight of the American. "Billy?" he called, treading water and twisting in the water. "Billy, where are you?"

There was the faintest touch of something wet at his ankle and Machiavelli swung around, trying to see into the murky water. He had just barely convinced himself that he was imagining things when he was pushed rapidly upwards into the air. The Italian gasped in surprise, but was relieved when he looked down to find himself sitting on Billy's shoulders. "Wet, isn't it?" Billy said happily, spitting out a mouthful of water.

Machiavelli smacked him on the head. "You frightened me."

"Sorry," Billy apologized easily, walking around in the shallower water. "I figured you'd know it was me after a minute."

"Not for that," Machiavelli admonished. "I didn't know where you were. I was beginning to think you drowned."

"Me?" Billy grinned. "Never." He turned around so that his back was to the deeper water. He glanced up at Machiavelli with a mischievous glint in his eye that told the Italian he was planning something.

"Billy, what are you thinking of doing?" Machiavelli asked, but even as he was forming the question, he knew what the American was planning. "Don't you dare!"

But it was too late. Billy leaned back and let them both fall into the water with a gigantic splash.

Machiavelli came to the surface, spluttering. "You're incorrigible."

"Thanks, I work out." Billy floated on his back.

Machiavelli squinted at him. Sometimes he wasn't sure exactly where Billy was joking and where he wasn't. He looked back to the shoreline when he heard a happy yipping. Their dog was running ahead of the Flamels in their direction. "Is he wearing a life jacket?" Machiavelli asked with some amusement.

Billy straightened. "Oh, good, they got it on him." He looked at Machiavelli's raised eyebrows. "Well, he's just a puppy," he defended himself. Both immortals watched the dog skid to a stop at the end of the dock. He looked to where his owners were waiting, backed up slightly, and jumped into the lake with something akin to a cannonball.

Machiavelli spit some water in Billy's direction. "Did you two have the same swim class?"

"You're just jealous of my swimming prowess," Billy called. He floated on his back, taking long strides with his arms.

Niccolo did a quick breaststroke, his movements precise and quiet. In a flash, he was beside the American immortal again and tugged on Billy's shorts, surprising him. "I can swim well too," he said, wrapping an arm around Billy's shoulder. Behind them, they could hear John playing with the Pup. It was a welcome sound to hear the husky's barking and John laughing as it chased him through the shallow water. They looked back, both of them without realizing it, smiling as they watched the antics.

"Climb on my back, handsome," Billy said finally. "I'll give you a ride." He turned over.

Carefully, Machiavelli tried to figure out how to get on the other immortal's back. At last, he threw a leg over and pulled himself on completely. He was afraid he'd pushed Billy too far into the water, but the Kid seemed unfazed by it all. "Good boy. Okay, here we go."

~MB~

Their break turned into an all afternoon event. Scathach and Black Hawk had joined the group midafternoon, though the Warrior Maid firmly refused to go in the water. She kept Perenelle company on the end of the dock, the women trailing their feet in the water.

"How much did you two get done?" Billy asked Black Hawk, swimming up beside the Native American.

"We're almost done," Black Hawk said. He lowered his voice. "After you guys left, we starting using our auras to speed it up a little."

Billy shrugged. "That's fine," he said. "I'm amenable to anything if it means I get my bedroom back to myself."

"I bet I know why you want your bedroom back," the larger man grinned and made a discreet, but obscene gesture. Billy laughed, but shook his head and glanced around to make sure neither of the boys had seen what Black Hawk had done. "Oh, come on. You're telling me you don't miss it?"

Billy rocked his hand back and forth. He grinned reluctantly. "Maybe a little. But, there's always the bathroom." He floated away from Black Hawk a little, dipping his head below the water. He cocked an eyebrow at the older immortal.

Black Hawk splashed him a little. "Just as long as you aren't-"

"Mac! There you are," Billy said enthusiastically, cutting the Native American off before he could finish the thought as Niccolo dog paddled his way over. "There's my boy," he said, cupping Machiavelli's face. Black Hawk pretended to gag next to him.

"Are we going to have dinner soon?" Machiavelli asked, sounding sleepy.

"Getting hungry, honey?" The Italian nodded. Drifting lazily on his back, he bumped into the Native American immortal, apologizing. Black Hawk pushed him back to where Billy was bobbing. "Come on, we can ask Perenelle," he said, guiding his Italian friend back towards shore. "Coming in?" he called back to Black Hawk, noticing they were leaving him behind.

Black Hawk shook his head. He made the same obscene gesture to Billy.

He grinned happily, told Black Hawk not to do it, and swam over to the ladies at the dock. The American's easy laugh floated across the water. Climbing up next to them, he scooped Machiavelli up and out of the water, settling him on his lap.


	40. Chapter 40

When Machiavelli woke up the next morning, he found that most of the work on the second cabin had been completed. He was surprised at how much had been done while he had been sleeping. Machiavelli ran his hands on the smooth plaster of the walls. He looked over at Billy lounging in the doorway. "When did you guys do this?"

Billy rubbed at his eyes and yawned. "Last night. Technically, we don't need sleep, so Black Hawk and Scathach and me, we stayed up and got everything put together."

"Why, though?" Machiavelli asked, wandering up the stairs.

"Because I can't take living in the same room with Black Hawk for one more day." Billy followed him up. He pointed to the room on the left. "We figured we'd put Scathach in this one and the Germains in the other room, the one above the kitchen and bathroom."

"And I'd rather sleep in the Jeep than spend another night with him," Black Hawk's voice floated up the stairs. Moments later the bronze man's head poked up the stairs. He tapped at the windows. "We had a hell of a time installing these in the dark."

Billy wrapped an arm around Machiavelli's shoulders. "We still need to paint the walls," he told the Italian. "Want to pick out the paint with me?"

"Sure." Machiavelli leaned back against the American and looked up at him through his long lashes. "Just the two of us?" Machiavelli questioned hopefully.

Billy shrugged. "Yeah, I mean Black Hawk doesn't care what color his walls are, do you?" He looked at the Native American. Black Hawk shook his head. "Something green, huh?"

"Like my Jeep!" Black Hawk drawled as he thumped down the stairs.

Billy started to follow him but realized the Italian hadn't moved and came back up the stairs. Machiavelli ran his fingers along the banister and slowly made his way to where the outlaw was waiting. "You do nice work," he complimented. "When are we putting the appliances in and stuff?"

"The appliances and furniture will go in tomorrow. Today we have to paint the inside and put a sealant on the outside." He grabbed Machiavelli and turned him away from the Thunderbird and towards the Jeep instead.

Machiavelli was confused. "We're not taking your car?"

"Put paint in my baby? Are you crazy?" He sounded slightly outraged and looked a little insane. "No way."

"But I thought you didn't like the Jeep," Machiavelli said, reaching back to grab the seat buckle. Moments later he was exceptionally thankful that he had gotten his belt buckled before they began moving. He wrinkled his nose with some distaste as they began to bounce down the road. He shouted over the ambient noise. "Did Black Hawk take the shocks out of the car?"

"He just might have," Billy yelled back. He whooped as they got to the straighter part of the road and he was able to really open up. "I think that man is nuts sometimes."

Machiavelli held both his arms out the window, feeling the wind rush around his fingers. "You're both nuts," he shouted.

~MB~

"And she took the money?" Machiavelli asked curiously. They had just dropped John off at his house after a long day of painting the house. Billy had somehow convinced the boy's mother to accept the money John had earned, much to the amazement of the boys.

Billy shrugged, pulling out onto the road. The Italian expected him to take a right at the end of the long drive way, but Billy spun the wheel in the opposite direction instead. "I have a way with women," Billy said, flashing a smile at Machiavelli. His large teeth shone white in the moonlight. "I just told her that I had worked her boy to the bone the last couple of days and that I wasn't going to leave without giving her the money."

"She seems like a very stern woman. I'm surprised she didn't frighten you," Machiavelli commented, taking one last look at the gray house before they disappeared into the tree line. "Where are we going?"

"There's a place at the top of this mountain where there are no trees. You feel so close to the sky, you begin to think you could touch the moon. I wanted to show it to you." Billy fell silent, pressing down hard on the gas as the incline grew steeper. Machiavelli could hear the engine rumble.

The Italian yawned. "We did a lot of work today," he mumbled. His eyelids felt heavy and he tapped at his face sharply to keep himself awake. "Are we there?" he asked as the car stopped.

Billy nodded, pulling Machiavelli out of the car on his side. They walked to the edge of the ridge and sat with their legs hanging in the air. From where they sat, they could see the entirety of the lake below them, the moon illuminating just the shadowy edges of the world around them. "Pretty, isn't it?" Billy said, grinning at him.

Machiavelli nodded dumbly and reached out for Billy's hand. Beneath the star studded sky, he felt insignificantly small. A patch of movement caught his eye and leaning forward, he watched an enormous moose step into the water of the lake, its movements precise and delicate. He leaned heavily into Billy's side.

"Tired?" Machiavelli nodded. Billy stroked the Italian's fluffy brown hair. He glanced at Machiavelli, looked up at the sky, and then quickly, suddenly, kissed him lightly on the top of his head. "Let's go home, then," he said. The outlaw rose and, with one arm beneath his legs and the other behind the boy's back, lifted him up. Machiavelli turned into the man's torso, feeling heavy and warm. He was asleep before Billy even had him completely settled into the car seat.


	41. Chapter 41

Machiavelli woke up to the unusual sound of a truck directly below his bedroom window. He scrambled out of bed and immediately noticed the uncomfortable sensation of too tight pajamas. He swallowed as he got stuck inside his shirt as he was taking it off and must have made some noise of distress because a moment later, he heard his door click open and the shirt was tugged off sharply.

Nicholas Flamel looked at the Italian with some concern. "Is everything alright?" he asked in archaic French.

Machiavelli nodded, feeling embarrassed. "Slightly claustrophobic," he mumbled. He made a motion with his hands, trying to explain. "The shirt was stuck."

"Ah," was all Nicholas said, moving to look out the window.

Machiavelli wasn't sure if the immortal was really looking out the window or just giving him some privacy, but nonetheless he was glad the Frenchman didn't say much. He was still feeling very disoriented. "Why is there a truck in the backyard?" he asked, changing into a pair of purple shorts and a t-shirt with a motorcycle graphic on it.

"They're down there installing the appliances right now," Nicholas said, glancing furtively at the Italian and relaxing when he saw the boy was fully dressed. "And then, we have to put in the furniture."

"I forgot we were doing that today," Machiavelli said, joining Nicholas at the window. He stuck his head out the window and watched a muscled man wrestle a refrigerator through the front door of the smaller cabin.

"It has to be today," Nicholas reminded him. "The Germains are arriving this afternoon."

The Italian stood up rather suddenly and smacked his head hard against the window. He yelped and withdrew his head, rubbing at the sore spot. Backing up, he tripped over the puppy and crashed to the floor. He gave a piteous moan. "I didn't know they were coming today."

Nicholas pulled him to his feet. "What's the matter with that?" he asked in surprise. He pulled the door open, hearing a firm knock. Scathach came into the room.

"I heard a loud crash. What are you two doing, boxing?" She put her hands on her hips.

Nicholas glanced at her. "Niccolò just had a bit of a fall." He paused. "After I told him the Germains were coming today. I think he's a bit shy," he whispered to the Shadow.

"I can hear you," Machiavelli protested firmly. "I just don't think they'll like me," he admitted to the two adults. "It was only a couple of months ago that we were on opposite sides."

Nicholas thought about that for a moment. "We were on opposite sides not too long ago. Now I think that we have the potential to be great friends."

"Well that's true," Machiavelli agreed hesitantly.

"We hated each other for centuries," Scathach called, settling on the Italian's bed. "But we've gotten over it. I even forgave you for pushing me through that door," she said cheerfully.

Machiavelli nodded, sitting beside her on the bed. "Yes, you have a point. I do apologize for... wait a minute, you pushed me through the door!" he yelped.

Scathach laughed. "I was just testing you." She poked him in the stomach. "Francis and Joan aren't going to hate you. Nicholas told us all how important you and Billy both were to saving the people in San Francisco. That's got to count for something.

~MB~

"That must be them," Perenelle said, watching an SUV roar towards them on the road.

"He drives like a maniac," Black Hawk said, looking up from his whittling. The Native American grinned. "I like him already."

Moments later the dirty black SUV pulled in next to Billy's Thunderbird. The Comte waved happily at the Flamels seeing them at the front porch and began to make his way up the walkway, but Joan trailed her fingers appreciatively on the red convertible.

"Francis!" Perenelle called, rushing out to meet the Frenchman.

"Madame Flamel, it is awfully good to see you so well," Germain greeted her, enveloping her in a warm hug. He pulled Nicholas into the embrace. "It's good to see you too, old man."

"Old man?" Nicholas asked, offended.

Perenelle patted the Master of Fire affectionately on the arm. "I'm going to go see Joan. I haven't seen either of you in so long." Scathach followed her over to where the young woman was standing.

Germain pulled Nicholas in the direction of the cabin. "So where is he?" he asked, his eyes bright with curiosity. "Is he still stuck in a kid's body?"

"Billy and Niccolò just went to take a walk; they'll be back soon. And yes, the change is still in effect," Nicholas answered. "I wanted to talk to you before they get back. Machiavelli is very nervous about meeting you."

Germain furrowed his forehead. "Why? Surely he doesn't think we're going to attack him?" He snapped his fingers, sparks of fire coming off his fingertips. Realization dawned on his expression. "Oh!"

Nicholas smiled softly, but didn't say anything else on the topic. "Here, I want you to meet someone. This is Ma-ka-tai-me-she-kia-kiak, but I think he prefers to be called Black Hawk."

Black Hawk shook the man's hand. "I do prefer it," he agreed. "Good to meet you."

"Nice to meet you. Here's my wife," Germain said, drawing her close to him.

Black Hawk bowed slightly to her. "If you're wondering where Billy and the Italian is, they're just coming back now." He pointed. "Here, I'm going to take your bags over to the other cabin."

"Do you need any help?" Germain called.

Black Hawk turned around. "I guess I could use some help from somebody big and strong and muscled." He turned to Scathach. "Here, you take this." The two immortals disappeared into the cabin. Those that were left on the porch could hear the two of them bickering.

Joan turned around. "Is that them?" she asked in French. They watched as the two immortals came into view. Billy waved in greeting, but Machiavelli hid slightly behind the American when it became clear that their guests had arrived. Billy looked down and wrapped an arm around the Italian's shoulders.

"Howdy," he said happily. He wiped his hand on his jeans and shook hands with both of them.

"Hello," Joan said, venturing forward. "Perenelle told me that's your Thunderbird over there."

"Yeah. You like it?" Billy grinned. "Did she tell you too that she stole it from me?"

Francis settled with Nicholas on the swing, watching the interaction with some interest. Joan looked over at the older Frenchwoman. "She did." Perenelle smiled blithely, settling in between the two Frenchmen. "I love old cars," Joan explained. "You're lucky yours came out fine. My Citroen was totally destroyed in Paris."

"Oh, yeah, I heard about that." He turned to Machiavelli. "Wasn't that kind of your fault?"

Machiavelli peeked out from behind the American and ducked back behind him. "Nice to meet you again. Sorry about your car," he mumbled shyly.

"It's alright," Joan said. She tugged the boy out from behind the American. Machiavelli came out from behind Billy, but settled up against him. "You're awfully cute," she said, trying to put the boy at ease.

"Thank you," Machiavelli said awkwardly. He smiled nervously.

Germain clapped his hands together. "We brought something for you. As we're going to be friends now."

Machiavelli started to object, but closed his mouth again. He knew that the Comte came from a time similar to his, back when gift giving was seen as an art form. "Thank you," he said again, accepting the parcel from the Frenchman. He looked up again. "Are these-?"

"Paintball guns," Francis puffed out happily. "It seemed like something that both of you would enjoy." He indicated both Billy and Machiavelli.

~MB~

"Are you sure that this Billy won't mind what Germain's doing?" Joan asked the Flamels. The three immortals ducked as a balled up pair of socks flew through the air and landed in the sink.

"Trust me," Perenelle patted the young woman's hand, "we're quite sure."

"Besides, he's out there in this mess right now, isn't he?" Nicholas queried, finishing the rest of the thought.

"Well if you're sure..." Joan trailed off looking at the warzone around them. The coffee table and side tables were turned on their sides, building a makeshift fortress. Currently, Germain, Black Hawk, Scathach, Machiavelli and Billy were holed up somewhere in the cabin, although precisely where they were, none of them were sure. She shook her head. "I can't believe he tore up somebody else's house the first night we got here."

Nicholas was about to say something but got cut off by the outlaw, who leaned over the balcony, shouted "die, you scurvy swine!", and threw a stack of underwear over the balcony baluster. Black Hawk got a face full. Nicholas closed his mouth again.

Joan looked up in wonderment. "Oh, yeah, he's just Francis's type."

Scathach scurried across the living room, covering her head with one of the cushions from the couch. She lunged towards the table and ended up sitting in Nicholas's lap before correcting her mistake and moving into the chair next to the Frenchman. Without commenting on what had just happened, she began to question Joan. "So how do you like them?"

The petite woman smiled. "Neither of them are as expected. Especially Machiavelli. I never thought he'd be this shy."

"He's not normally," Nicholas said leaning in. He checked the progress of the battle before them and quietly explained how afraid Machiavelli was of how they would feel towards him.

"I don't think we have to worry about the boy anymore," Perenelle said thoughtfully.

"Why?" her husband asked, surprised.

Perenelle pointed. Machiavelli had pinned Germain to the ground. The Comte was laughing hysterically. The elegant woman covered her mouth. "I think," she said softly. "I think they've become friends."

"This is sickeningly cute," Scathach mumbled. She checked her watch. "Billy! It's past midnight."

Billy poked his head out. "Oh, that's true." He snapped his fingers at the Italian. "Time for bed, Mac." Machiavelli reluctantly came out from beneath the armchair. "I'll be up in a minute. I just want to put the room in some semblance of order."

"Night, squirt," Scathach called, punching him on the shoulder. Similarly, Black Hawk clapped him on the back before heading for the other cabin.

"I'll help you clean up," Germain called. He rolled his sleeves up and let his aura flare. The scent of burnt leaves filled the room. Furniture began jumping back into place.

"Wish we had you here the past couple of days," Billy said, watching the man work with clear admiration.

"Cool, huh. I think I was the original inspiration for La Belle et la Bête."

"Show off," Joan chided, rubbing her husband's shoulders. The young woman stopped the Italian before he started up the stairs. "Goodnight," she told him, kissing him on the nose. The Italian blushed slightly and stammered a 'buonanotte' before climbing the rest of the way up.


	42. Chapter 42

Machiavelli pushed into Billy's room later that night, not bothering to knock. "Hey, Billy, I... Billy?"

With the low lighting of the hallway behind him, Machiavelli could just make out Billy lying in bed, in a rather, ah, compromising position. At the sound of the Italian's voice, however, Billy shot up and grabbed the pillow behind him, throwing it in his lap. "Mac?" Billy's voice sounded a few degrees huskier than it normally did. He cleared his throat and raked a hand across the stubble of his five o'clock shadow. "What's- what's up?" he groaned.

Machiavelli had to cover his mouth with his hand to keep from smiling. "I just- no, you know what, it can wait. I'll wait. I'll go back to my room." He couldn't help myself and turned back for a moment. "It looks like you were almost done anyways."

"I wasn't doing anything!"

This time the Italian did laugh. "I'm still a grown man. I know what you were doing. And seeing as it is the first night in a couple of weeks that you've had the room to yourself, I guess I should have expected this..."

Billy motioned towards the door. "I can't have this conversation with you when you look like that. Go to your room! I'll be there in a minute!" He slumped backwards on the bed and the Italian thought it wise to leave promptly.

A minute later, Billy came into the boy's room, fully dressed. Machiavelli instantly noticed that the American wasn't looking him into the eye and there was a definite pinkness to his face. "I didn't figure you to be a blusher, Billy," he jibed amicably.

Billy's flush deepened, if anything. "Yeah, well, I didn't figure on you coming in at this hour." He sat on the edge of Machiavelli's bed but stood up just as quickly as if he had been scalded. "What'd you need, Niccolò?"

Machiavelli smiled at the rare usage of his first name, but blushed a little himself now. "I've been waiting for you to tuck me in... You always come in eventually." He shrugged somewhat helplessly. "I was wondering if I could give you a kiss."

The American sat on the edge of the bed. "Oh, yeah Mac. I just got to talking down there for so long and I thought you'd asleep by now."

Machiavelli shrugged shyly. He wrapped his arm around Billy's shoulder and paused a moment before tenderly kissing the outlaw's temple. "Goodnight Billy," he whispered.

Billy helped him lie back. "Night, Mac. I'm sorry I forgot about you."

"It's okay. Now you can go back to what you were doing," Machiavelli giggled. He heard Billy moan miserably before the American turned off the light entirely.

~MB~

Machiavelli came down the next morning to find the kitchen table completely full. He yawned. "I see space at the table is prime real estate today," he quipped.

"Here, kid," Scathach said. "We could probably push over a little."

"That's okay. I'll just sit here." The Italian settled onto Billy's lap before the outlaw could object.

"Um, Mac, I-"

"Did you have a good night's sleep?" Machiavelli asked him happily. "Cause you seem a little bit grumpy."

"I'm not grumpy."

Scathach studied Billy. "You do seem a bit crotchety," she said, grinning wickedly.

"I don't know why he'd be grumpy," Black Hawk called from his place by Germain. "We finally have our own bedrooms, again."

"I don't want to talk about it," Billy mumbled. His ears turned slightly pink. "What are we doing today?" he asked, changing the topic.

"Are we going paintballing today?" the Italian asked excitedly. He leaned forward to look at the Fire Master, pushing down on Billy's knees.

"No, not today, I'm afraid," Francis said. He winked at the boy. "I have a plan."

"His big plan is to put you guys in a hot air balloon," Joan explained.

Perenelle leaned towards Scathach. "I know you don't like being up in the air, so you and I are going elsewhere." She touched the Warrior's hand lightly.

"This was excellent, Perenelle," Germain said, not paying attention. He pushed back from the table. "Of course, we wouldn't want you doing anything you don't want to do," the Frenchman agreed. "Black Hawk's going to drive beneath us and pick us up in the end. You could go with him."

Billy tapped the table with his spoon, banging out a syncopated tune. "I like balloon rides," he said.

"As do I," Nicholas agreed.

They all looked over at Machiavelli. The Italian had dug into Billy's bowl of cereal and wasn't really paying attention, only looking up when he noticed the conversation had lulled. "I've never been in a balloon before," he admitted through a mouthful of cereal. "But I think it'll be fine."

~MB~

"Is that really a hot air balloon?" Machiavelli asked, looking up at Joan. "It looks like a castle."

"It is a castle," Joan replied. "Francis tends to go over the top. When he found an air balloon in the shape of the Chateau d'Azay-Le-Rideau, he had to buy it. Cover your ears now, he's going to start blowing it up," she said, motioning to the noise cancelling headphones around his neck.

"Okay." Machiavelli snapped them in place. He watched as Francis and Nicholas set up a gas powered fan, the balloon slowly inflating before them. The noise was incredible- even with the headphones, the Italian could hear the roar of the fan. Right before the balloon was fully blown up, the two Frenchmen turned off the fan and Germain began shooting flames into the balloon.

Machiavelli felt a sharp jab in the shoulders. 'Time to get in,' Billy mouthed to the Italian. 'Take off the headphones,' he motioned. Fear blossomed in Machiavelli's chest for the first time.

"Don't worry, Mac," Billy soothed. "It's a little scary the first time you go up, but then it's a lot of fun." He swung the young tactician into the basket of the balloon and gave Joan a hand getting in. Finally, he pulled himself over the edge.

"All in?" Germain asked. "Good. Let's go then." The flame in his hand leapt higher, crackling merrily. Machiavelli gasped as the balloon began to rise. He felt a swooping sensation, watching the ground slip away from them.

"Scared?" Nicholas asked. He nudged the boy.

"A bit," Machiavelli admitted. He glanced behind him at Germain, who was setting up the propane burner. "But don't tell anybody," he whispered. "I'll get used to it."

Joan overheard them talking. "The trick is to not look down if you're frightened. Look over there," she pointed, "see the trees? Focus on them."

Germain had finished setting up the flame. He reached up and turned the flame low so that they maintained their height. "Did you know, the first air balloons to be successfully flown were launched from Paris in 1783? I was on one of the first rides; that was truly terrifying." He smiled kindly at Machiavelli. "I assure you, my friend, we are quite safe. But should you feel scared, we can always go lower."

"Or stop altogether," Billy chimed in, looking down at the rolling fields below them.

"Or stop," Germain agreed.

Machiavelli leaned over the railing, keeping a hand on Billy's arm. "I'm okay now," he assured the others. "You like flying, huh?" he asked Nicholas, noting the new animation in the man's expression.

"I love flying," Nicholas corrected quietly. "It's one of my favorite things to do. I didn't think I'd get to experience it so soon though," he said, smiling brightly.

Germain was delighted. "I remembered you liked it," he told his old master.

The Italian looked over at Billy. "And you've been up in an air balloon?"

Billy nodded, wrapping an arm around Machiavelli. "My first time up in one was in 1903. Black Hawk went with me."

"Was it fun?" Joan asked.

"I loved it, but Black Hawk ended up throwing up over the edge. He hasn't tried again since."

Machiavelli laughed. He felt better knowing the burly Native American didn't like the ride much either. The wind blew in his face and he smiled; things weren't really that bad up here. But he was sure to keep a firm grasp on Billy's hand at all times.


	43. Chapter 43

"That's weird behavior," Machiavelli commented, watching Billy the Pup walk around with Georgette stretched out on his back.

Billy looked up and shrugged. He stretched out his lanky legs on the coffee table. "I don't think he minds. The Pup's getting bigger." They both watched as the puppy flopped over in front of the fireplace. Georgette began grooming the puppy; the husky tried to pull away, but the tabby grabbed him in what could only be called a feline chokehold.

"Strange," Machiavelli echoed, shaking his head.

"I've seen cats do stuff like this before." Billy looked over his shoulder as the backdoor slammed. "Hey, Germain. We got you some danish; it's on the counter."

The Italian twisted around to watch the Fire Master as he grabbed several pastries. "Have you ever seen a cat ride a dog like a horse?" He jerked his head at the pair by the fireplace.

"No," Germain admitted. Machiavelli stuck his tongue out at Billy. "But then I've never had pets before. I move too much," he finished with a happy smile. He bit into the pastry. Flakes flew. Billy turned on the TV.

"We should go horse riding again," Machiavelli said suddenly. He pointed to their pets. "Like Georgette and Billy."

"We could," Billy agreed. "If our guests want to."

"Of course," Machiavelli agreed. He looked at Germain through his long lashes. "Do you like riding horses?" he whispered.

Germain chuckled. "Oh my, yes. I was there in 1519 when the Spanish reintroduced horses to the Americas."

"Were you?" Billy asked. He thumped Germain on the back. "I got my first job cause of you."

"Cowboy?"

"Horse thief."

The two men stared at each other. Germain began to chuckle. "Fair enough. I wasn't always an honest man either. He turned to the Italian. "In answer to your question, I would love to go riding. I'm sure Joan will agree, but you can go ask her, just to be sure."

"Okay," the Italian agreed. He slipped off the couch and pounded out the back door. The screen door slammed behind him, but he stopped, the bright sunlight of the outside world disorienting him.

"Hey, kid!" He looked to his left and grinned. Scathach and Joan were frantically waving to him from the hammock.

He ran up to them. "Can we go horseback riding?" He backpedaled. "Billy says we can as long as you want to go. So can we go?"

Joan smiled down at him. "I would like that." She tugged at Scathach's hand. "It'll be like old times.

~MB~

"This reminds me of when Mac and I went to an amusement park," Billy told Scathach. "I put him," he jerked his head at the Italian, "on a carousel. Every time he came around he'd wave to me."

"He's not waving now," Scathach said, watching Machiavelli walk around the paddock. The Italian was a lot calmer than he had been last time, but was still gripping the reins firmly.

"Ah, he waves with his eyes," Billy said dismissively. He stepped onto the bottom rung of the fence. "I really wish I was taller sometimes."

"So do I," Scathach agreed. She leaned on the fence beside the American. "So why's Joan riding there beside him and not you?"

"Joan offered," Billy said. "And Mac likes her a lot."

"Joan's a good teacher." Scathach briefly watched the two riders in the paddock. "Why don't you ride a horse? Machiavelli is in good hands. And I know you like to ride."

Billy cocked his head. "I might." He waved to the two riders. "Mac? I'm going to ride a little bit. Do you mind?"

Machiavelli paused, tightening the reins in his hand slightly. He cocked his head. "I guess so. You'll be back soon?"

"Of course."

"Okay," the Italian muttered. He waved his hand slightly.

Billy reached out to touch the Italian, but couldn't quite reach. He touched his lips thoughtfully. "I'll be back soon!" He ran up the hill towards the bigger pasture and waved to Black Hawk.

The Native American rode over and dismounted, handing the reins to Billy. "You're going to ride for once?"

"Yeah," Billy whooped. He swung onto the big bay horse and smacked the animal's neck affectionately. "Ready to ride for real?" he asked the horse. He spurred the horse in a quick trot before completely opening up. He let the horse gallop with no particular direction in mind, enjoying the feeling of wind blowing sharp against his lithe body. He let out a wild cheer.

The outlaw could feel the muscles of the horse beneath his legs. They rippled with each burst of energy the horse put forward. The outlaw rode for a while at the quick speed before he let the horse slow to a canter. He turned the horse around and headed back for Black Hawk.

Black Hawk smiled. "You've still got it," he acknowledged.

"Of course," Billy replied. He slid off of the horse and handed the reins back to the muscled man. "I've always loved riding horses."

"And stealing them," Black Hawk retorted.

"Nah, I don't do that anymore," Billy said, ducking his head. "I'm an honest man now, through and through." He thumped his chest and lifted his chin at the other man, defying him to say differently.

But Black Hawk said nothing of the sort. Instead he pointed down to the little corral. "While you were off gallivanting, your kid has rode around the perimeter of that paddock a dozen times."

"Oh yeah," Billy said excitedly. "How's he doing?"

"Seems fine. Why don't you go see him, let me go back to riding?" Black Hawk sounded bored, but Billy didn't notice. He was already running back to where Scathach was watching the Italian's progress. He slid down the incline and hit the fence next to the Shadow with a soft thud.

"How is he?" Billy asked Scathach, straightening his hips out. She motioned with her hand at the boy who was approaching them, Joan in tow.

"I think I'm getting it, Billy!" Machiavelli hollered as he passed the American.

Billy whooped and climbed up the fence, balancing at the top on the fence post. "You're doing great," he called as the Italian went around the paddock again.

Joan pulled off to the side and dismounted. She headed in their direction, leading the horse behind her. "He wanted to go around once more. I'm a bit tired though." She leaned against the fence. "Where's Francis?"

"Oh, he's over there," Billy drawled, pointing towards the barn. "If you can believe it, he and Nicholas are fencing."

"I can believe it," Joan said. They looked over in the direction of the barn where the two Frenchmen were mock sparring. Nicholas had pinned Germain to the side of the barn, but with a quick twist of his wrist, Germain pushed him backwards. "He reminds me of Inigo Montoya," Joan said laughing. "I can't believe I married him."

"Hey, who wouldn't want to marry Mandy Patinkin?" Scathach said, laughing slightly herself.

Billy twisted around to look at the two women. "Inigo Montoya is what women look for in a man?" the American asked with some interest.

"Oh, yeah. Gorgeous, long hair-"

"-A charming accent-"

"-and good with his hands," Scathach called out enthusiastically.

Billy frowned. "By your definition, I'm the lowest of the low."

"Oh no, Billy, you're just a different type of handsome," Scathach told him, but Billy wasn't listening. The American had sat up ramrod straight before swinging his leg over the rail and dropping into the paddock. He took off running.

The two women looked in the direction that Billy was running and immediately sprang into action. The horse that Machiavelli had been riding on was now galloping towards the far end of the paddock. The Italian was lying on the ground.


	44. Chapter 44

Joan jumped on her own horse and rushed off to the far end of the paddock to calm the horse down.

Billy skidded to a stop by Machiavelli. His face loomed over his, the American's countenance white and ashen. "Mac?"

"I'm okay," Machiavelli mumbled dazedly. He made a motion with his hand, but didn't open his eyes. "The horse got spooked, I think, by a bag in the wind..." He trailed off. Scathach sighed and patted him on the knee. She got up, heading in the direction of the Frenchwoman and the nervous horse.

"Mac, are you sure you're all right?" Billy was still worried. There was sensation of guilt making its way down into the pit of the American's stomach, making him feel that he could have prevented this somehow.

Machiavelli opened his eyes a crack. "I'm fine. Why?"

"Why? Cause that was the scariest thing I ever saw!" Billy yelped.

"It was pretty scary being on the horse too," the boy told him. Machiavelli raised himself off the ground and looked over in the corner of the paddock where Scathach and Joan were calming the horse down. "I don't think I want to ride the horse anymore today, Billy."

"That's fine," Billy agreed immediately. Both immortals looked up as Germain ran towards them.

"Saw it from the barn," the Frenchman wheezed. "Are you alright, dear boy?" Behind Germain, Nicholas ran up, leaning heavily on his knees as he came to a halt.

"I'm okay," Machiavelli mumbled, growing embarrassed from the attention he was receiving. He looked over at Billy again, focusing on his clear blue eyes. He tried a joke. "What do you think, doc? Will I ever play the piano again?"

"I said that," Billy muttered.

"Doesn't seem so funny now, does it?" Machiavelli asked attempting to get to his feet. His legs were shaking badly from fright and nearly collapsed underneath him, before the Frenchman grabbed him under the armpits.

Billy took one look at the boy and took pity on him. He collected the Italian in his arms and still managed, somehow, to swing himself over the paddock fence. "Come on Mac, we'll bring you home." The trio of adults headed in the direction of Billy's Thunderbird. Machiavelli was quite happy to let Billy carry him to the car until he saw the women coming towards them and then he struggled to the ground.

"I'm feeling better," he said to the men and ran in front of them to get in the car.

"Well, he's walking again at least," Nicholas muttered to Billy as he climbed into the Jeep with Scathach and Black Hawk.

"I've been meaning to ask you, Billy," Machiavelli called sleepily from the backseat of the convertible. "Do you know how to play the piano? Or were you just joking?"

"I was joking at the time, but yeah, I play the piano a bit," the American conceded. He looked at his Italian friend through the rear view mirror. "But there's no piano in the cabin for me to prove it, so you're just going to have to take my word."

"We should get you a piano," Germain said, settling beside Machiavelli.

The Italian nodded in agreement. "Then you could play for us!"

Beside him, Germain tapped his chin thoughtfully. "How quickly do you think we could get a piano sent to us?" he asked his wife as she slid into the passenger's side of the front seat.

"I really don't know, Francis."

"Don't get your hopes up, anyways," Billy said from the front seat. He stepped heavily on the accelerator and pulled out of his parking spot. "I'm nothing special, I play a lot of rock songs."

~MB~

After the excitement of the horse riding incident, the immortals were more than happy to stay in the cabin and relax for the rest of the afternoon and night, but this decision was ultimately taken out of their hands at any rate by the mass of thunderclouds rolling across the sky. By nightfall, a cool breeze had stirred up.

Nicholas sat by the window, frowning as streaks of lightning cracked the sky. He turned to the other three men and cut the cards placed in front of him before passing them to the Frenchman at his left. "What are we playing?"

"Five card Monte," Billy answered happily from across him.

Black Hawk groaned. "Want to fill in for me?" he asked Perenelle who sat closest to him in the arm chair.

Perenelle smiled, but shook her head. She never lifted her eyes from cross-stitching. A crack of thunder made her miss a stitch and she made an impatient noise as she undid the damage. "Not particularly, no."

"Quit bellyaching, you'll have fun."

"Why do you always want to play Monte? Are you trying to scam us out of our money?"

Billy seemed vaguely insulted by this accusation. "Excuse me, three card Monte is a scam game, five card Monte is an art form."

"I've never seen a lightning storm when it wasn't raining," Germain broke in, deftly changing the topic. He began to deal the cards.

"It's fairly common in this area of the country," Billy commented, organizing his cards. "Of course, dry lightning storms are more dangerous because the risk of fires is more prevalent. But you would know that already." Germain dipped his head slightly in agreement.

"We can play a different game after this one," Nicholas commented to Black Hawk.

"Like poker?" Black Hawk asked, discarding. He swore slightly when the gate was turned over. "Did you ever play poker?" he called to Machiavelli, poking the Italian on the back of the head.

Machiavelli looked up from the 3D puzzle he was fitting together. "No, I've never been one to gamble."

"That's too bad," Black Hawk muttered. "You were born with a poker face attached."

Somehow, Machiavelli ended up feeling both complimented and insulted. The Native American seemed to hover in between times of wisdom and times of arrogance. He looked up when the back door and watched Scathach and Joan come into the cabin. He was surprised when they sat beside him on the couch. The Italian cast around for a topic. "Did you know that jigsaw puzzles were originally just maps cut up by parents trying to amuse their children?"

"I didn't know that," Joan admitted. She paused a moment. "Did you create jigsaw puzzles for your children?"

Machiavelli shook his head. "Puzzles like these weren't created until the 18th century, nearly two hundred years after my children lived."

"How many kids did you have?" Scathach wondered out loud.

"Six," Billy answered for Machiavelli. He noticed the boy looking over at him in surprise. "Sorry. It was in that book I read." He tossed his cards on the table. "I win." The three other men tossed their cards into the center. None of them seemed surprised that the American had won. They all looked up when a bout of thunder rolled over the area nearby. Machiavelli stiffened slightly, but breathed out.

Black Hawk stood up. "I'm going to get a beer and then we're going to play a real game. Anybody else want one?" Scathach nodded, as did Nicholas after a moment's pause. The big man swung around right before leaving the room. He looked over appraisingly at the other American immortal. "What about you Billy?"

"You know that I don't drink," Billy said. "Never have."

"I had two daughters and four sons," the Italian told Joan, warming to the subject. "I was particularly fond of my baby Guido, despite what my wife believed."

"It's really strange talking to you about having children when you look so young yourself," Germain broke in. He tossed a couple of logs into the fire and ignited them. The Italian immortal noticed that the Fire Master seemed particularly fond of purple flames.

Machiavelli wanted to continue to tell the two women about his children, but another thought had intruded upon him and was taking up residence in the front rooms of his mind. He slid off the couch and strolled over to where Billy was sitting. He leaned against him, pulling the outlaw's left arm around him. "Could I have the beer that you're not going to have?" he asked Billy hopefully.

Billy looked up. "No," he said, sounding exasperated.

"Oh why not, Billy? He's over five hundred years old," Black Hawk called. The muscled immortal grinned at Machiavelli.

"Absolutely not."

"Well it was worth a try," Machiavelli sighed. He put down the finished puzzle on the coffee table behind him. There was a loud bang above them as a tree branch came down and he grabbed for Billy's waist. "What's the matter, you a bit scared, Mac?" Billy asked softly. "No," Machiavelli insisted. "It just surprised me."

Germain looked up. "This sounds more like it should," he said, nodding. "Although you never struck me as a beer person," he told the Italian.

"I never was," Machiavelli agreed. He frowned, tiny creases forming on his forehead. "I don't know why I want a beer now."

"Hormones?" Joan suggested, drawing her legs up beneath her.

"Or just typical male stupidity," Scathach interjected, accepting her drink from the Native American. Machiavelli stuck his tongue out at her. "Ooh, mature."

"Add this to your puzzle facts," Machiavelli said to the Frenchwoman, circling back to her and their earlier conversation. "Jigsaw puzzles were actually very popular during the Great Depression even though they were nonessential. They were relatively cheap, reusable, and kept people occupied for hours."

Billy nodded. "They distracted people from how hungry or tired they were."

"Well that's one thing we really don't have to worry about," Germain said cheerfully. "Ready to play poker?"


	45. Chapter 45

"I'm glad the storm stopped," Germain observed the next morning, stopping into the living room.

"Yeah, but the yard's a mess," Billy mumbled. He gestured wildly before returning his attention to his book. "Sticks everywhere. It looks like we cut down a forest out there."

Germain doubled back. "Oh, do you want help picking up?"

Billy shook his head. "Nah, you enjoy your day with the Flamels. Where are you going anyways?"

"Sight-seeing. Are you sure you don't want to go? We're going to see the quainter side of America," Germain said, his blue eyes wide and innocent.

Billy looked up. "If you find it, you let me know what it looks like. Mac and I are going to clean up the yard, I think."

"What am I going to do?" the Italian asked, tromping down the stairs.

"We've got a bunch of sticks in the yard. I figure we'll spend the morning picking them up." Billy smiled at Machiavelli.

The Italian was unmoved by his charm, moving to look out the window. He turned to the Frenchman. "Where are you going?"

"Well, Black Hawk left early this morning to pick up some supplies or something of that nature... and we're going into town to do some exploring since we haven't actually looked around yet. I think the girls want to go shopping?" Germain clapped Billy on the back and maneuvered the Italian out onto the porch. "I'm going to look into buying a piano. Can you keep The Kid occupied for the day?"

Machiavelli nodded. He leaned in to the Frenchman, speaking softly. "While you're in town, could you pick something up for me?" He continued without waiting. "There's a candy shop downtown. Can you buy some horehound candy?"

"Horehound candy?" Germain scratched his head. "Sure," he agreed affably.

Billy knocked at the edge of the door frame. He settled his arm on Machiavelli's shoulder, noting that the Italian had shot up considerably in the last week, the top of his head now hovering around Billy's chest. "If you want to go, Mac, I can clean up here by myself."

"No, I want to be with you," Machiavelli said, touching Billy's hand with his own. He looked away quickly. They both waved to Germain as the Frenchman climbed into his SUV and drove off.

"Now about the sticks..." Billy trailed off as the scent of serpent filled the air around them. Machiavelli held a hand out, long fingers splayed. Abruptly all the sticks in the yard rose up in one mass.

Billy watched astounded as the gigantic stick monster dragged itself across their yard and fell apart in their wood pile. "What was that?"

"A tulpa," Machiavelli answered. He huffed slightly, tired but not exhausted. "You can make them out of anything. It is a bit draining to do, but not too bad this time since it was such a short distance." He clasped his hands together.

"Will you teach me how to do that sometime?" Billy asked, ducking his head shyly. Machiavelli sat beside him on the front steps, nodded.

"Sure. But not right now." They both watched as Georgette stalked along the edge of the woods. "Where's Billy?"

"Black Hawk took him for his car ride. And before you ask, I don't know where Black Hawk went." Billy glanced sideways at Machiavelli. "Now that our morning is blown wide open, what do you want to do?"

Machiavelli leaned back, looking up at the streaks of clouds in the sky. He knew that Germain wanted him to keep Billy occupied, so that meant he had to bring the American somewhere that he couldn't easily return from. "We should go on an adventure," he said slowly. "We never get time alone together anymore."

"Is that why you didn't tell me about your magic stick pickup?" Billy asked carefully. He got up. "Let's go on a hike, Mac. I know a place where you can jump into the lake from a high rock. We'll go there." He stood up decisively. "Change into your swim shorts. I'll pack a lunch."

~MB~

Machiavelli snuffled and opened his eyes. He blinked and rolled over. Somehow he'd ended up lying on the picnic blanket. "Billy?" he called. The Italian looked around.

"Hey, Mac," Billy's voice floated down from somewhere above. Machiavelli looked around, trying to locate the American. He called out again. "I'm up here, Mac," Billy said, dropping out of the tree. The outlaw landed catlike on the ground and grinned at Machiavelli somehow, around his book which was clenched between his teeth.

"Reading your book?" Machiavelli asked, keeping his face neutral. He pulled himself up and didn't wait for the American to answer. "Why'd you let me sleep?"

"Oh, well, you were tired. I figured after your tulpa stunt you'd need to recharge a bit," Billy said, sitting beside him on the blanket. He dug through the picnic basket. "And then we went on our hike... so here, have the rest of your sandwich."

"And then we'll go swimming?" Machiavelli asked around his sandwich. "Because I'm not tired anymore."

Billy ruffled Machiavelli's hair roughly. "Sure, Niccolò. We'll get it all done." He stuck his book back in the basket. "We can go now, if you want." The Italian scrambled to his feet, helping Billy to toss the remnants of their lunch in the basket. He quickly balled up the blanket and tossed it in as well.

"Where is the rock?" Machiavelli asked, skipping beside Billy.

"Not far," Billy said. He pointed. "Actually, it right around the bend here."

"We were that close all along," Machiavelli yelped. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Billy wrapped his arm around the Italian, pulling him close. "But then you wouldn't have taken your nap. And I wanted you to get some sleep." They came around an angle in the road and the boy saw the rock for the first time.

Machiavelli slowed to a crawl as he approached the edge of the rock. He carefully peeped over the edge. "We're going to jump off of this?"

"It'll be fun," Billy called. "Don't worry about it, the water is plenty deep." He was already pulling off his t-shirt.

"I don't know..." Machiavelli hesitated. He looked back at the American. "And you'll hold my hand?" Billy grinned, knowing he had won. He nodded.


	46. Chapter 46

Billy and Machiavelli trudged back to the cabin just as the sky was beginning to darken. The Italian dragged the basket behind him, letting the wicker hit the back of his legs. Finally, Billy pried the basket out of his hands and carried it for the last hundred feet. "Tired, Mac?"

"Yeah," Machiavelli's voice was thin, the boy totally worn out. While the creation of the tulpa and the hike had worn him out, the hours they had spent swimming had completely exhausted him. He had the peculiar feeling that his stomach was still floating somewhere in the lake. He shook his head, trying to focus on Billy's voice. "What did you say?" he asked rather thickly, following Billy up the steps.

"I was just saying that I enjoyed our day. But I'm tired too." He let the Italian go in first. "Hullo," he called. He took a double take. "Since when do we have a piano? Germain?"

Germain shook his head, his eyes twinkling. "Your young Italian friend asked us to get it for you. Along with these." He tossed a bag to the outlaw.

Billy caught the bag deftly and sat with the other immortals in the living room. "What's this? Oh, horehound!" he said happily, smiling so that his prominent front teeth showed. He popped one in his mouth and offered the bag to the others. They all declined with the exception of Black Hawk. "You really shouldn't have," he told Machiavelli, drawing the boy close to him.

"I wanted to hear you play the piano," the Italian told Billy, climbing into his lap. He looked around the room. "So how was everybody's day?"

"It was excellent," Germain said immediately. He gesticulated wildly. "There's a wonderful old music shop called the Half Note. They have a great record selection in the back; I'm thinking of building m own collection up again." He would have continued, but Joan laid a hand on her husband's forearm. "Oh. Was I rambling again?"

"Yes," Scathach said bluntly. She unlaced the boy's shoes, letting them drop on the floor with a dull thud. Machiavelli watched her fingers work over the laces, a warm feeling spreading across him as he got progressively more tired. "Shouldn't we put him to bed?" she asked Billy.

"I'm not tired," Machiavelli said, slurring his words. "I want to stay up. Keep talking about your day," he said, his voice rising slightly. A slightly giddy chuckle escaped his lips and he melted into Billy's lap.

"We went shopping," Perenelle continued, watching Machiavelli tilt slightly to the left. Billy's arms pulled him upright again. "The three of us."

"You and the girls?"

"No, me, Joan, and Francis," Perenelle clarified, a slight smile on her face. To her right, Joan mouthed the words 'the girls.' The older Frenchwoman shook her head. "It took him forever to pick out clothes."

"Can I help it if I like to look good?"

"Scatty and I don't particularly enjoy clothes shopping, so we walked around town," Nicholas chimed in.

"When did you buy the piano?" Machiavelli asked, shifting slightly.

"Oh, I got that," Black Hawk said, surprising the Italian. Machiavelli had almost forgotten that the Native American was there.

The Italian leaned forward. "I thought you were getting supplies." He turned to Germain. "And you said you were going to pick up the piano. You tricked me!" he said, the pieces suddenly fitting together. Machiavelli blinked slowly. A grin spread across his face. "You didn't trust me?" he asked admiringly.

"No, I did." Germain laughed. "But I thought I'd throw you off the trail just in case."

"Huh." Machiavelli leaned back. He looked up at the American. "Are you going to play for us now?"

Billy opened his eyes. "Sure," he agreed shyly. He kissed Machiavelli through his curls and settled the Italian next to Scathach. The Shadow slung an arm around him and pulled the blanket off of the back of the couch. Billy swung a leg over the piano bench and played a scale before smoothly changing into the beginning notes of Come Sail Away.

"You're good," Germain said with admiration, coming to stand behind the younger man. He began to hum along with Billy as the outlaw played. Billy grinned up at him and changed the tune. Germain sat with him on the bench as they belted out I've Got You Babe.

"Like I said, all rock songs," Billy said, finally after Germain dragged out the last notes.

Scathach grinned over at him, showing her pointed teeth. "Can you play Walking on Broken Glass?"

"That Annie Lennox song?" Billy asked. He flexed his fingers experimentally. "What does that start on, an F?" He looked over at Germain who nodded. "I could probably wing it. Are you going to sing?" He smiled. "Excellent."

Scathach untangled herself from Machiavelli who shifted to let her get up. Scatty's green eyes glinted with excitement. Nicholas smiled at her and let her pull him to his feet. She wrapped an arm around his back and sashayed. The Frenchman was surprisingly nimble on his feet. As the song finished, Nicholas kissed her lightly on her forehead.

They made their way through a repetoire of songs. Finally, sometime after midnight Machiavelli got to his feet. He swayed slightly. "I think I'll go to bed now," he said approaching Billy. "Will you sing me a song before I go?"

Billy looked at his reflection in the piano for a moment. He smiled softly. "I'll sing you my favorite song. It was first published in 1873..." He played a few notes experimentally before he began to sing.

_When your hair is silver white,_

_And your cheeks no longer bright,_

_With the roses of the May,_

_I will kiss your lips and say_

_Oh, my darling, mine alone, alone,_

_You have never older grown..._


	47. Chapter 47

Machiavelli woke up mid-morning to a silent cabin. He wandered around the downstairs, wondering where the other immortals were. Finally, he padded back upstairs and pushed into Billy's room. He found the American sacked out in bed. He tugged the blankets up around Billy and wandered back out. The Italian paused briefly at the Flamels' room and then peeked around the door. The French couple were asleep as well, he noted, catching the way Nicholas embraced his wife even in their sleep. He smiled and closed the door as quietly as he could.

Thumping back down the stairs, he stopped in the living room to scratch Georgette behind the ears. He then grabbed Billy's leash and clipped it on. The husky yipped loudly, excited to be let out. Machiavelli froze, sure that they had woken the immortals upstairs, but after a moment there was no sound and he relaxed. "Come on," he told the dog and pushed open the screen door.

Machiavelli squinted in the early morning light. Billy the Pup tugged at his end of the leash, impatient to begin his adventure. The Italian loitered in the yard, afraid to off without Billy's permission. He smiled, hearing a door slam. Looking up, he caught eyes with Joan of Arc. "Good morning," he greeted her courteously.

"Hello, angel," she greeted, coming down the steps to walk beside the Italian. "Wondering where everybody is?" Beside her, Machiavelli nodded. "They all stayed up late last night. Francis and Billy kept playing the piano- I thought for sure they were going to wake you up. Did they?"

Machiavelli shook his head. "I was very tired yesterday." The Pup yanked on his leash, whining pitifully. Machiavelli unclipped his leash at last and the dog bounded off. The Italian looked up at Joan. "Why are you awake now?"

Joan ducked her head. "I'm afraid I hardly sleep now a days. We don't need sleep, thankfully. I get nightmares," she admitted.

"Oh," Machiavelli didn't know what to say. He was far more comfortable with discovering people's secrets through his own trickery. It made him uncomfortable that Joan would divulge such a thing with her own free will. He whistled for the dog. "Where are we going?"

"I think I'm going to walk to town," Joan said. "Want to come with me?"

"Are we going to walk there?" Machiavelli asked in surprise. "That's like a mile!"

Joan laughed. It was a pretty tinkling sound, like wedding bells. "Old age is making you lazy," she said. "When I led armies, we walked for miles a day."

Machiavelli unconsciously straightened his legs out, making it look like he was goose stepping. "You must have been popular," he mumbled. Joan only laughed more. "What are we going to do today?"

"Francis and Billy think that now that we have a piano, we should have a dance. I see another late night in our future." She nudged Machiavelli on the shoulder. "While we're in town, we can pick up supplies for a party."

~MB~

Machiavelli ducked through the immortals and found Billy dancing with Scathach by the front windows. He watched the American dip Scatty back and grinned. He leaned against the fireplace, looking around the room. The small room seemed to buzz with energy and Machiavelli was reminded of countless dances he had attended through his immortal years. "Hey," he said to Joan and Germain as they swung by.

"Having fun?" Germain questioned, as the music ended and they came to a halt. Machiavelli nodded. "Here, why don't you break in?" The Frenchman pushed Machiavelli over to where Scathach and Billy were standing.

"Can I break in?" he asked dutifully.

Scathach grinned. "Sure," she said. "He's yours." And she followed Joan and Germain as they left. Machiavelli protested mildly, then turned to face the American.

"I guess I'm your new partner."

"Come on, I'm going to teach you a new dance," Billy said happily. "It's called the jitterbug and it was popular among the young crowds in the 1920s. They didn't have it in Italy?"

"Oh, I don't know," Machiavelli whispered. "I haven't danced with anyone in about four, five hundred years. I especially wouldn't have touched some schoolboy dance."

"You should have," Billy laughed. He dragged the Italian out into the middle of the living room. He waggled his eyebrows. "It's a lot of fun. Come on, there's no thinking to it." The American wasn't lying. Not only was the dance horrendously unstructured, it didn't match the dance music that was playing at all. Billy seemed unfazed by that fact.

Machiavelli was sure they looked like a pair of fools but after a moment he didn't really care. He decided to ham it up, kicking his feet high and alternating steps. He actually squealed with delight when Billy tossed him up in the air and spun him around.

All the other immortals began to give the pair a wide berth.

Machiavelli was all out of breath by the time they stopped dancing. "I think I'm going to sit down now," he told Billy. The American agreed easily, pushing him in the direction of Scathach and Joan on the couch. "Jitterbugging is hard," he told them, squeezing in between the two young women.

"I know," Scathach agreed. "I've danced it before, but I've never watched it. It looks absolutely insane from the spectators' point of view."

"But it looks like you were having a lot of fun," Joan added

All three of them watched as Billy and Germain began to do some half assed salsa. Machiavelli couldn't help but giggle as they watched Billy dip the Frenchman backwards. "This is positively grotesque," he commented.

As the song ended, Scathach stood up. "I think I'm going to go break up the loving spoonful over there."

"You should dance too," the Italian informed the Maid of Orleans suddenly. "We have so few women, they are very precious. Although why your husband is letting Scathach lead is beyond me..."

"How can you tell who's leading?" Joan asked. "They're moving so quickly."

"It the hands." Machiavelli pointed. "They should be the opposite of what they are now. Although, knowing what I do about Scathach, and your husband," he said, glancing her way, "maybe the hands are where they should be."

Joan laughed. "I never expected to be talking to you about dancing," she confided.

Machiavelli was surprised. "I've always liked dancing. I've spent about half of my immortal life as a patron of the arts. Although I haven't actually danced in many years."

"Why not?"

"I got used to dancing with my wife. It seemed wrong to dance without her." He glanced around the room, noting that Billy had paused over by where Black Hawk was to talk. "You probably already know that I was not a good husband. There's a lot of things I did behind my wife's back that were wrong."

Joan shrugged. She looked around the room. "I've heard you liked the presence of women in your time," she allowed.

Machiavelli laughed. "That's one way of putting it. But I never danced with them, nor did I tell them I loved them. I never promised a future with them. I'm not saying that what I did wasn't wrong..."

"No," Joan agreed. "But you've become a better person, I think." She paused. "You dance with Billy?" It was half a question, half a statement.

"Billy's infectious," the Italian replied. He smiled. "He makes me feel like I'm a new person. He makes all the old hurts fall away."

Joan frowned slightly. "Is it true that you were tortured?" she asked the boy softly, touching his cheek. "This morning when we talked, you got a look in your eye. You have nightmares about it too. I can tell."

Machiavelli straightened his shirt. "Yes," he whispered. "Only I'm not sure that Billy knows about it and I don't want him to find out if he doesn't know already."

"But I do know," Billy said from behind the Italian. The boy jumped. "I read it in that book about you." He jammed his hands into his pockets and shuffled his feet slightly. "But I skipped it," he confessed. "I couldn't stand to read about it."

Joan got to her feet. "I think that I'm going to go steal my husband back now," she told the two men, patting Machiavelli on the shoulder as she left.

Machiavelli looked up at Billy. "I promise that I'll tell you about it someday but not today." He smiled gently. "I'm having a lot of fun tonight."

"I'm glad." Billy smiled so that his eyes lit up. He pulled Machiavelli to his feet. "Let's dance again. You know, my mother and I used to go to bailes before she got really sick. I loved it." He spun the Italian in a wide circle. "I love you."


	48. Chapter 48

"We're going paintballing," Machiavelli said happily. He bounced next to Billy on the seat. The Jeep went around a corner, lifting the car onto two wheels. It jammed back down on the road with a shudder. "Isn't it exciting?"

"Shouldn't you be more frightened?" Scathach called from the backseat. She struggled to lean forward from where the seatbelt had long since pinned her backwards. "Not of the paintballing, I mean, but the car ride."

Billy glanced back at her, twisting slightly so that he could see her as they talked. "I remember a time not too long ago when he was frightened by this driving."

"I'm sure the feeling will come back as I get older," the Italian said happily. "But right now, I don't give a damn!" He whooped as they went over a particularly large bump in the road. Billy groaned.

"Tides have turned," Black Hawk called from the driver's seat. "I never thought I'd see it, but he's acting like you and you're acting like him." He glanced over at Billy.

Billy shifted uncomfortably. "I'm just nervous with Mac being so small."

"I'm getting bigger every day!"

The outlaw looked back at Scatty. 'Help me out,' he mouthed to her. Scatty wrenched the seatbelt off. "I think Billy just wants our Italian friend to be in one piece tonight." She put her hand on Black Hawk's shoulder. "Slow down or tonight, as you sleep, I will crack your walnuts."

Black Hawk slowed to a reasonable pace at once.

Scathach patted him on the back. "Good boy."

~MB~

"Why are we wearing winter hats?" Machiavelli asked, tugging on Billy's shirt sleeve. "And long sleeve shirts. I know it's colder today, but it's not that much colder." He stumbled over a tree root. Billy caught him by the scruff of the neck and pulled him back up again.

"Paintballs hurt," the American explained. ''And you are going to be wearing goggles too." He handed them over and in the same movement, tugged down the tactician's sleeves. "Trust me, you'll be thankful for the cover when the others start aiming at you." He glanced behind him. "I think we're far away from them now that they won't hear us," he said to Scathach.

The Shadow looked back herself. "Sure." They all came to a halt. Scatty glanced at her team. "So you know how to play," she nodded at Billy, "but the two of you don't?" The three men acknowledged their agreement. "Okay," she looked over at the two European immortals. "We're playing a capture the flag version of the game. You win by either taking out all of your opponents or by grabbing their flag and bringing it back to our base."

Billy pointed at a squat dugout. "That's supposedly our base. I think we should move it. It's expected that we'll use the dugout."

"Shouldn't we have somebody guard the base?" Nicholas suggested from where he leaned on a tree.

Scathach flashed a grin. "Are you volunteering?"

"Well, my knees aren't what they used to be..."

Billy laughed. "You can guard our base," he traced the words with quotation marks, "but I think we should have you guard the dugout. We'll put you within sightline of the actual flag, but the trick is to make it look like our flag is somewhere else."

Machiavelli observed the three adults interact, saying nothing. He listened to Billy scheme with interest and it occured to him that he was seeing Billy the Kid for the first time. This was the outlaw that had lived in the Wild West a hundred years ago. He caught the Shadow's eye. "What am I going to do?"

Scatty briefly touched his chin with both of her hands. "You are our tactician. I think you will accompany Billy across, guide him." Beside her, Billy grinned. "Okay, so the game is starting in two minutes. I'm going to go that way," she pointed, "the two of you will go this way. Nicholas-" She looked around. "Where's our Frenchman?"

"Up here," Nicholas called. He waved from a low branch of an old oak tree. "I thought I might see our opponents better from higher ground."

The normally unflappable Scathach gaped at him. "You can climb trees?"

"I was a boy once," Nicholas said modestly. He checked his watch. "It's time to start." Scatty hurried off to pitch their flag and go her way. Billy pulled the Italian in the opposite direction.

"How do you get somebody out in a paintball match?" Machiavelli whispered.

"Anytime, you're hit, technically, you're out of the game," Billy responded quietly, talking out of the side of his mouth. He glanced around, assessing the landscape. There was an open field slightly to the right and tree cover to the left. The American tugged him closer to the tree line. "Because this is the first time for about half of the players, we changed the rule to three hits. Gives you a little more leeway."

Machiavelli tugged the dark green hat down lower on his face. It suddenly occured to him that against the greenery, his pale skin would stick out like a beacon. He ducked low to the ground.

Billy made a motion with his hand. Cupping his hand to the Italian's ear, he whispered quietly, harshly, "Look, our first target." He pointed downwind. Machiavelli's sharp eyes picked out Germain creeping around in the underbrush. "I want you to shoot him," Billy said. He put up a hand to stop the Italian's objections. "What do you see to our left?"

Machiavelli squinted. "Nothing."

"Wrong. Black Hawk's covering us," Billy said with grim determination hardening his face. He leaned in front of Machiavelli. "I'm going to go for him. You shoot Germain like I taught you."

"What if I miss?"

"I'll cover you and you run back and for the high ground." Billy swung to the left and suddenly began to fire. A crashing noise surprised Machiavelli, but he cleared his head and aimed for Germain. "Both eyes open," he repeated softly to himself. He leveled the gun and took careful aim. He pulled back the trigger. With a soft pop, the gun jerked back and a dark red mark appeared on Germain's coat. The Firemaster swore loudly in French and disappeared backwards. "I got him, Billy," Machiavelli said excitedly.

Billy tugged him to the side, so that a shot from Black Hawk just barely missed the Italian. It exploded against a birch tree, a bright splash of neon green. "I got mine too," Billy said. "Now he's quite mad."

"Why? It's just a game."

"Let's just say I got him south of the border," Billy said. He squeezed out a spray of paint bullets, pushing Black Hawk back. They watched as the Native American melted into the landscape. "So, you got yours, honey? That's great." He inched forward on his stomach. "Which way did he go?"

"Germain? That way." Machiavelli pointed. "And where Germain is, I imagine Joan is close by." He looked to their right and flung out a hand. Billy didn't notice until the Italian grabbed his ankle. "Billy, look! It's Scatty. And they've pinned her down."

"Well, let's go save her," Billy said, suddenly veering off course. "Come on!" He laughed. "No sense in crawling along now, we're out in the open." He began to run, ducking from boulder to boulder. Machiavelli opened up behind him, flat footing it behind him. A hale of paintballs followed them.

Machiavelli felt a sharp tingle on his side and looking down found a bright green splatter on his sweatshirt. "He hit me," he cried indignantly. He stopped running and ducked behind a dirt mound for protection. He began to fire back at the Native American. Black Hawk was laughing until one of Machiavelli's red paintballs hit him square on the chest. Then the muscled man sobered considerably and took off running in the direction of their base. Machiavelli let him go.

"Germain's out of the game," Billy said. He pointed in the direction of the mini battle they'd been moving towards. Germain was laughing as he walked off.

Machiavelli gaped after him. "Okay, you're purple and Scatty's gray. Who's pink?"

"Germain," Billy said happily. "I'll tell you about it later. Though I'm sure Germain will want to tell it himself. Come on, Scatty's fine now. Let's go find their flag."

The European looked around the landscape. "Shouldn't the Sorceress be somewhere around here?"

"Not necessarily," Billy said. "You're assuming that she stayed behind to guard the flag like we did. But Mrs. Flamel's a pistol. I bet she's gunning for Nicholas as we speak." He pointed. "There's their flag. Do you want to cover for me while I get it, or do you want to go for it?"

"I'll go for it," Machiavelli said decisively. "You're the better shot out of the two of us." He ducked through the foliage, expecting to get hit, but nothing moved around him. He grabbed the flag and came back to Billy. "Do we win?" he asked uncertainly.

"No," Billy shook his head. "We have to get it back to our base first. Let's go!" They took off running.

~MB~

"That was a good match," Germain said happily. He turned to the young American immortal. "How is it that you never got hit once?"

"I've got a theory," Machiavelli interrupted. The two men stopped their conversation. Billy cocked his head. "You see, Billy's so thin, he just has to turn on his side to avoid getting hit." He grinned happily.

"Well that's one theory," Billy said, moving towards the car. "I just can't believe Perenelle shot Nicholas out of his tree. That's just cold." He shook hands with the woman. "I love a good gunfight!"


	49. Chapter 49

"Hey, Mac." Machiavelli could hear Billy's voice calling to him, but it sounded far away. He turned over in his sleep and began to suck on his knuckles. It was a very nice dream he had been having. Guido was in it, grown up, smiling at him. Billy's voice intruded again. "Mac!"

The Italian sat up, suddenly awake. He jerked his hand out of his mouth and wiped the back of it on his pillow case. "What's up?" he asked.

"What were you thinking about sweetheart? You were smiling." Billy didn't wait for an answer, but sat down on the Italian's bed. "It's nearly noon," he said conversationally. "And the Germains have to leave after lunch. "So-"

"It's nearly noon?" He moaned and crawled out of bed. "Why'd you let me sleep this long?" he asked, pulling off his shorts and rooting around in his closet. "Where are my clothes?"

Billy grinned at him. "Let's see. To answer your questions: Yes, because you were tired, and here have some underwear." He tossed a pack to the preteen.

"Well, you don't have to worry too much. Between the ages of about 12 and 16, I grew very little." The Italian looked around. "It's a mess in here," Machiavelli commented. He stepped into the boxers. "What were you doing, sorting clothes?"

"I was actually. It seems like every time I turn around, you've gotten bigger." The American scooped a pile of clothes off the ground. "These are the clothes I think will still fit. Even if you don't grow much over the next few weeks, we're going to have to get you some colder weather clothing." He rubbed the stubble on his chin. Since you're getting ready, I think I'm going to go tell the others you'll be down soon."

"Wait, I'm almost done," Machiavelli called. He grabbed a shirt, pulled it over his head, and followed Billy down the stairs. The European immortal jumped as all the other immortals began to sing Happy Birthday to him. He blushed deeply. "You got me a cake," he said, looking at the table.

"Baked Alaska," Germain agreed.

Joan touched her husband's arm. "Francis looks for any excuse to add fire to the occasion." She smiled at him.

"Of course," Germain agreed. He plucked the candle shaped like an eleven off the cake and lit it with the tip of his index finger.

Machiavelli slid in next to Nicholas. "Are we having cake before lunch?"

"It would appear so," Nicholas said.

"Do you have to leave?" Machiavelli asked suddenly. The adults looked up. "I don't want you to leave. I'll miss you."

"Will you miss me, too?" Black Hawk called from the other end of the table.

Billy looked up sharply. "Why, where are you going?" He tugged Machiavelli's cake away from him and replaced it with a sandwich, but never broke eye contact with the Native American.

Black Hawk made a motion towards the French rockstar. "Germain has made me a job offer. I'm going to run security at his concerts for the rest of the season. Like we used to do."

"I'll miss you," Machiavelli said, cautiously. He was surprised by his feelings. The Native American was cavalier and caustic at times, but the Italian recognized the fun that Black Hawk brought with him.

Joan caught the Italian's troubled expression. She touched his arm lightly. "It's not goodbye forever," she said smiling at him. "Francis's tour ends in October and then we'll come see you again."

Billy swiped a bite from Machiavelli's cake. "Maybe we can go see one of your concerts."

Germain brightened. "Absolutely. I'll send you tickets." The conversation steered in the direction of music. Nicholas and Scathach got into an argument about the importance of the British invasion.

Perenelle and Joan had no apparent interest in the topic. They broke away from the group shortly before the lunchhour finished and stood on the porch, chatting rapidly in French. Machiavelli broke away from the bigger group and drifted towards the women. "Bonjour," he said, smiling at them.

"Hello, dear," Joan said. She drew him into a hug. "I'm very happy that we met each other this week. J'espère que nous pouvons être des amis de longue date."

"Moi aussi," Machiavelli agreed. He looked up as the others got up. "Oh, is it time to go already?"

"I suppose so," Joan said. "Francis and I have to be in Seatle by tonight." She kissed Machiavelli on both cheeks before moving on to say goodbye to the other immortals. The Italian flushed happily, but was surprised when St Germain grabbed the Italian by the shoulders and kissed him as well.

"Bye," he called.

~MB~

"It's kind of sad, the Germains being gone," Machiavelli said that night. He came into Billy's room and leaned on the doorframe.

The outlaw glanced up. "I know. But they'll come back again. Germain's tour finishes up at the end of the year." He waved the Italian in. Machiavelli straightened out his long legs and strode into the room. It occured to him that he hadn't ever really looked at Billy's bedroom before. There was a surprising number of books on the side tables, though a space had been cleared for a picture of Billy's mother. "You know, Mac, I never really thought about this before, but Phantom of the Opera is rather frightening," Billy commented, thumbing through his copy of the book.

"You never thought it was frightening before?" Machiavelli asked somewhat incredulously. He thought a moment, before asking suspiciously, "Have you read it before?"

"No," Billy admitted without a trace of shame. "But I love the music. So I should like the book. I think I'm going to read it next."

The Italian climbed onto the bed beside the American. "What abour your Sherlock Holmes book? Aren't you going to finish that?"

Billy looked up. "Oh, I finished that the other night. I need very little sleep," he explained, seeing the other immortal's dubious look. He glanced down. "Say, Mac, did you know you're starting to get hair on your legs again?"

Machiavelli slid his legs under the blankets quickly. "Yes, I'm aware," he snapped.

Billy thought for a moment, then his whole face lit up. "You're going through puberty," he laughed and slung an arm around the Italian's shoulders. "My baby boy's growing up," he said, wiping a fake tear from his eye.

The Italian roughly pushed Billy's arm off his shoulders. "Oh, shut up," he said in a low voice, scrunching down in the bed.

Billy cocked his head. He seemed to be doing some calculation. "That means... that means in about a week or two, you're going to start getting bitchy, what with hormones and all..." He tossed the book on the nighttable. "Then you'll be even more frightening than my book," he concluded happily.

The Italian moaned unhappily. "I don't want to go through puberty again. I didn't like it the first time."

"Necessary evil, I'm afraid." Billy grinned at him, his blues eyes twinkling. "Unless you wish to be remembered for the little prince, instead of The Prince."

"Aspetti!" Machiavelli swore. He sat up in horror. "No, no, no... How could you do that to me?" He slipped off the American's bed and began to pace back and forth. Billy smiled broadly but began to apologize, even catching the boy's hand. Reluctantly, the Italian sat back down.

"I'm sorry, Mac," Billy repeated. "But it's a valid point. And it will be over soon," he swore. He began to rub the boy's back before kissing the back of his hair. "We've got to give you a haircut, sweetheart."

"I'd like a haircut," Machiavelli acknowledged. He looked back at Billy. "Are you going to tuck me in?" he asked.

"Of course." Billy rolled out of the bed and onto the floor. He smacked the ground lightly and came bouncing to his feet. "Listen, Mac, I'll do my level best not to make fun of you. You just might have to remind me from time to time."


	50. Chapter 50

"Billy? What do you keep in the shed by the woods?" Machiavelli asked. He was milling around the cabin. Life seemed somewhat duller without the Germains there to introduce something new every day. But then he supposed that every day couldn't be extraordinary otherwise they'd run out of things to do incredibly quickly.

Billy half turned from where he was standing at the sink doing the dishes. "It's just my workroom." After a moment, he added, "I put together the Thunderbird in there."

Machiavelli continued to gaze out of the back door. The shed was set a ways back, almost into the woods, though the Italian supposed it had probably jutted out further when it was first built. With its aluminum frame, it looked like it had been added some time ago, but not nearly as long ago as the cabin.

"Could we put together a car?" Machiavelli asked suddenly. He leaned against the counter, looking at Billy's face so that he could gauge the outlaw's reaction.

Billy, for his part, didn't have much of a reaction. He pulled the plug to the sink, letting the water drain away. "Huh," he said. The American turned around. "Yeah, I suppose we could. Maybe in a couple of weeks so that then you can drive your car when it's done."

"Me, drive the car?" Machiavelli frowned. "I'm no good at driving."

"That's true, he isn't," Nicholas confirmed. The Italian tossed a sponge at the older Alchemyst. Nicholas ducked the sponge rather easily. It hit the wall with a wet squelch and slid down to the ground.

"How bad could he possibly be?" Billy wondered out loud, rather naively, even Machiavelli had to admit. He moved some of the dishes onto the drying rack. All the same, behind the American immortal's back, Machiavelli gave Nicholas a death glare, willing the man not to say anything. Thankfully, the Frenchman decided to keep mum. Billy continued on, wholly unaware that anything was going on behind him. "Anyways, Mac, I just keep it locked so that kids don't get into it. If you want to explore in there, take my keys." He pulled out his key ring and held them out.

Machiavelli hesitated only a moment before he snagged the keys from him. "Are you going to come with me?"

Billy shook his head. "In a little while, but I want to get some chores done. Things here have been piling up the past week or so. The laundry, for instance." He gestured in the direction of the washing machine. Clothing was literally piled up, obstructing most of the machine from view.

"Maybe Scatty will look with you," Nicholas suggested.

"Where is our resident vampire?" Billy asked from the hallway.

Nicholas coughed. "She's upstairs with Perenelle, packing up our things."

Machiavelli dropped the keys. They fell to the ground with a loud clatter. "You're leaving too?" He crowded the Frenchman. "Don't go."

"We're not leaving, mon ami," Nicholas said, surprise coloring his accent. "I didn't mean to give you that impression. We're just moving into the cabin with Scathach now that the others have left her alone out there."

"Oh, good." Machiavelli was relieved. As much as he loved the alone time he got with the American, he adored the feeling of having a large family again. "I'm going to see if Scatty will come out with me," he told them, heading for the stairs.

"Tie up the Pup if you go in there!" Billy called after him. "I don't want him getting into everything." But he couldn't be sure that the Italian had heard him because they could hear his soft footfalls already padding around in the bedroom above them. Billy had to repeat the instructions as the boy came back into view on the stairs.

"Okay," Machiavelli said, coming back down. He was lugging a suitcase behind him. "Scatty and Perenelle are going to come out with me as soon as we got all the stuff moved."

"Is there a lot more?"

"This is the last of it," Scatty said. She was toting three suitcases in one hand in the way that some people might carry three pieces of paper. Carelessly with her other hand, she pushed Machiavelli out the back door and followed him down the flagstone pathway leading to the guest cabin.

Perenelle had followed the procession down, empty handed. Her husband looked at her questioningly. "I offered to carry something," she defended herself. "They wouldn't let me."

"Scatty likes doing that kind of thing," Nicholas said, shrugging and going back to his crossword. "She's my tough girl," he said absently. Perenelle rubbed her husband's shoulder and left them, a smile on her face.

"You really love Scatty, don't you?" Billy observed. He began sorting the laundry into piles of colored and whites. Absently, he picked up the pile of colored clothes from where it teetered on the counter and moved it to the kitchen table.

Nicholas looked up and after a moment, nodded. A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips. "Strange, isn't it? She's older than all of us combined, but I think of her as a daughter."

Billy began tossing the white clothing in the washing machine. 'She needs some parents looking out for her. Her own failed her."

Nicholas nodded. "I think so too. Perenelle always liked Joan best, but Scatty was my favorite." He glanced at his crossword. "Hey, do you know the answer to this one? Richard Widmark stars in Two Rode-"

"Alone," Billy said immediately. "Two Rode Alone. An okay movie, not great. Black Hawk never liked the way they portrayed the Indians." He closed up the machine and pressed start. A soft humming noise filled the room.

~MB~

Meanwhile, the Italian immortal had long since cajoled the two women into joining him in the old storage area. He had ventured in quite far, but the two female immortals had hung back by the door.

"This is a great place," Machiavelli said, looking around. His eyes glowed with excitement. He looked around the room, noting antique bottles and rusted nails on the shelves, a jar of marbles pushed in the back. A rusted knife stuck into the workbench. _Billy must have stuck it in and forgot about it_, he thought. The Italian sincerely doubted that any of them would be able to pull the knife out, just short of burning the bench down.

Scathach ran her finger along a shelf. She examined the dust. "A great place. Sure. I just wonder when he last cleaned it?" She mumbled the last part to Perenelle under her breath. She clapped her hands together, beating the dust off. "Oh, look, here's a picture of Billy and Black Hawk."

Machiavelli leaned in to read the text on the sign behind the two immortals. "World's Trade Fair, 1903," he read. "That's weird."

"Why's that surprising?" Perenelle asked, brushing the dust off of a stool and sitting down. She looked at the dirt on her hands and grimaced. "Billy probably went to a bunch of those fairs. From what I've heard him say, his master didn't seem to make much use of him."

"But I was there," Machiavelli mumbled. He leaned in close to see the details of the picture. There was a car behind the pair. _A 1903 Lohner-Porsche_, he thought decisively. "I don't remember seeing him."

"Did you know him back then?" Scathach asked in surprise. Machiavelli shook his head. "Oh. Then why would you remember him?" she asked in confusion. The Italian looked up at her, then back down at the picture.

"Billy's special," he mumbled. His ears tinged red and he ducked his head. "He seems like the type you'd notice. And remember, is all." He touched the frame of the picture before setting it back down. He noticed the women exchanging a smile and rapidly backpedaled. "I should have noticed their auras anyways."

"Or at least Billy's handsome face," Scatty teased. Machiavelli blushed slightly. He was suddenly very happy that it was so dark in the shed.

"Is that blood on the ground there?" Perenelle asked suddenly, pointing to some dark red droplets on the ground. Machiavelli looked over, grateful for the distraction.

The Italian stooped low to the ground and inspected the drops. "No, I think it's paint. Probably from when he painted the Thunderbird. He said he worked on it in here." He nodded to himself. "Most likely paint."

"Well, let's hope," Scatty said lightly. She toed Machiavelli lightly with her foot when he didn't get to his feet again. Something had caught his attention. The Italian pressed down closer to the ground. "What's the matter, kid, need help up?"

"No," Machiavelli mumbled. He pressed himself into the space in between the work bench and the floor and reached underneath. "There's something under here," he grunted. "But I can't get to it."

"It's probably nothing," Perenelle said. Machiavelli reluctantly got to his feet. He gave up for the moment, but promised himself he was going to go back sometime. "Look, Niccolò, Billy has some more model cars."

"Where?" Machiavelli came to stand beside the tall woman. Scatty began to beat the dust off of his back. "Ah. A 1910 Ford Model T." He fingered the front bumper and looked up at the women. "Look at the detailing." He smiled.

"I got that at a general store in town, the last year I stayed here," Billy said from the doorway. Machiavelli jumped. He hadn't expected the outlaw to have appeared as suddenly as he had. Billy moved in, ducking under some rope hanging from the ceiling. "Dinner is almost ready. We should pack up for the night." The two women headed for the back door, but Machiavelli was still wandering around. "Mac? Are you coming in?"

"What? Oh, yeah," Machiavelli agreed, already distracted again.

Billy cleared his throat and pulled a wheelbarrow from the back corner, wiped it down with the sheet covering it. "Would you like a ride, sir?" He smiled cheekily at the Italian.

Machiavelli approached the wheelbarrow. "In there?" he asked.

"Mmm," Billy hemmed. He waggled his eyebrows and lifted the tactician into the wagon of the wheelbarrow. "Hang on to the edges," he warned. "I'm going to go fast."

The Italian grabbed onto the sides as Billy pushed him out of the shed. The American hadn't been kidding. As soon as they had left the shed, the Kid broke into a run. Machiavelli felt his stomach drop a couple of notches the first time Billy made a turn. When the ride ended, it ended too soon. "Could you do that again sometime?" he asked, breathless.

Billy nodded. He smiled, but wheezed slightly. "Sure."

"Are you all right?"

The American rubbed his chest. "Just get a bit winded sometimes. I think it's just remnants of the wound." He smiled. "Could be a lot worse. I could be dead."

"Don't say that," Machiavelli begged.

Billy leaned the wheelbarrow up against the side of the shed. "Sorry," he apologized carelessly. "I didn't mean to upset you." He pulled the Italian close to his side. "So did you find anything interesting in my old shed?"


	51. Chapter 51

"Alright, Mac, you want a haircut?" Billy asked the next day as they were finishing lunch.

Machiavelli brightened. "Yes." He ran his fingers through his unruly curls. His hair had never in his life been as long as it was now. Although the weekly transformations stunted his hair from growing too long, at the moment, his hair was uncomfortably touching the back of his neck. "Are you going to get one too?"

"Why?" Billy asked doubling back. "You think I need one?"

Machiavelli nodded vigorously. "What do you think Scatty?" he called to the Shadow. "Does he need one?"

Scatty looked up from the knife she was sharpening. She glanced over at the American outlaw. "I think he needs two." Machiavelli giggled in appreciation and high-fived the warrior. She grinned up at Billy. "It's not going to kill you."

The Italian opened his eyes as wide as he could. "Please, Billy. For me?"

"Fine," Billy sighed. "Is anybody else coming?" Scatty didn't bother to answer him, already busy cleaning her tools again. Neither of the Flamels wanted to go either, so the American shrugged and pulled Machiavelli out behind him.

The Italian skipped behind him, then realized that he must not look very dignified and slowed to a walk. "What are we doing tonight?" he asked as he climbed into the passenger seat of the Thunderbird. "Something fun?"

Billy waited until Machiavelli had buckled in before he let his foot off of the brake. "We can do anything you want, sweets." He flashed a smile at the Italian. Machiavelli felt his insides melt a touch. The outlaw turned the long car onto the main road. "What kind of thing were you thinking of?" Billy asked, tapping out a rhythm on his steering wheel.

"I don't know," Machiavelli admitted. He trailed his fingers out the window and wondered idly if he could touch the trees on the side of the road. They looked close enough. He leaned out the window experimentally. Billy groaned and pulled him back in. "Sorry. Sometimes I get carried away." He turned to watch the American instead, turning the golden pendant over and over in his hands. "Maybe we could have a movie night."

"Sure," Billy agreed. "We could get a brownie mix from the store and make some if you want." He lapsed again into silence. "Are you sure I have to get a haircut?" he asked as they arrived on Main Street.

"I think you look much handsomer when you're clean shaven."

"All right," Billy sighed. He had to wait for some cars to pass before he could get out of the car himself.

Machiavelli was waiting for him on the sidewalk. "Can I get a manicure too?"

"What?" Billy pulled a face. "Mac, we're trying to fit in. How many eleven year olds do you know that get their nails done? Or men in general?"

Machiavelli ignored the last comment. "I suppose so," he said. "Here's the barber." The bell rang as they went into the shop. An older man got out of the the barber's chair as they entered and greeted them at the door.

"Are you both getting a haircut?" he asked cheerfully, coming to stand before them.

"Yes," Billy said. "I suppose we both are." He smiled just slightly at the Italian. "My son doesn't think that I'll go through with it, so I suppose I'll go first." He motioned to Machiavelli. "Why don't you read a book?"

The Italian was already looking through the selection. He distastefully pushed aside the Dora the Explorer books and picked up a Batman comic. Though he looked through the comic book, he kept his ears pricked as Billy and the barber talked. He smiled slightly, hearing the general track of the conversation. It seemed like Billy had finally found someone who loved to talk more than he did.

"... and you look exactly like the man in a picture I have of my father." The barber blathered on. "This guy was one of the founders of the town. It's astounding how much you look alike. You could have been this guy's brother..."

"Is that so?" Billy asked, the vaguest trace of humor in his voice. "I guess it could have possibly been one of my relatives. They've owned a cabin up here for as long as I can remember."

"Oh, the Bonney cabin?" The older man said with familiarity. He spoke up over the sound of the razor whirring. Machiavelli stole a glance over at the American. Large tufts of Billy's light brown hair was drifting to the ground, but unfortunately the rotund man was blocking most of his view. He glanced back down. Batman had just changed out of his costume. "Then you must be related," the barber continued. "That explains a lot. I didn't know that Henry Bonney ever had children. He seemed like a bit of a loner."

"I think he was more lonely than a loner," Billy said carefully. He tilted his head to the side so that the man could get to his sideburns. "He eventually found someone that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with."

"You're all done." The barber said. He took a brush off of the tray in the other chair and swiped away at the short hairs. "Well, I'm glad to have met you. You never did tell me your name."

Billy stood up carefully and grinned. "I'm Billy Bonney. And it's your turn Mac," he called to the Italian. Machiavelli set aside the comic at last and looked up at his American friend. "How do I look? Handsome?" Billy asked, grinning.

"Handsome," Machiavelli said offhandedly. And the American did look very handsome. The Italian immortal made a mental note that he was going to keep Billy clean shaven for the rest of their lives if he had any say in the matter. The man actually looked older somehow and more mature when he was clean cut.

"How do you want your hair, son?" the barber asked affably. He motioned to the chair which Machiavelli clambered into hesitantly. The Italian looked at Billy for help, suddenly excruciatingly shy.

"Niccolò likes it short," Billy supplied for him.

"Niccolò, huh? Nice name." The man began to snip away at the Italian's curls. "He doesn't look much like you," the barber continued.

The American beamed. "I just adopted him. He's from Italy, doesn't speak a lot of English yet, but we're working on that." He tried to run his hand through his hair, but there wasn't enough to do anything and the outlaw scowled for the briefest of moments. His humor quickly returned, alongside his smile. "He's my sweetheart."

~MB~

"Why'd you tell the barber I couldn't speak English?" Machiavelli asked curiously as they picked their way through the grocery store.

Billy tossed a brownie mix in the car and leaned over for a container of vegetable oil. "I was afraid you wouldn't be able to answer all the questions barbers ask kids. Where do you go to school, what grade are you in, etc." He maneuvered the Italian in the direction of the dairy department.

"Oh, I guess that's smart. I wouldn't have thought of that." The Italian grabbed a carton of eggs and put them next to the milk. "What are we having for dinner tonight?"

Billy rubbed his chin. "I thought we might pick up a pizza on our way back to the cabin. Is that copacetic for you?" Machiavelli nodded. "Good. Come on darling, I think we've got everything we need."

They swung by the pizzeria on their way back from the grocery store. Billy let him hold the pizzas on his lap, much happier in fact, than if he had had to put the boxes down on his leather seats. For his part, Machiavelli enjoyed the feeling of the pizza box in his lap, the bottom of it heating up his legs comfortably in the cool air of early evening. "Why'd we get two pizzas? There are only five of us. And I'm not sure Scatty eats pizza." He glanced at the American and carefully stole a pepperoni.

"I got a cheese one specifically for Scatty. She says she's a vegetarian," Billy explained. He glanced over at the Italian. "And I saw that." Machiavelli looked at him defiantly, but Billy continued on. "Actually, I thought you were a vegetarian too when we first met."

"I was," Machiavelli confirmed. He paused, searching for the right words. "But I was a vegetarian because most food didn't taste good. And now it does. I don't know why it does though." He popped another pepperoni in his mouth. "I don't question it. I just hope my taste buds don't go back to how they were."

"Maybe it's another side effect of your transformation," Billy hazarded. "But stop taking pepperonis. We're not going to have any left by the time we get there."

"There will be plenty," Machiavelli protested. "You're just jealous because I have delicious pepperonis and you can't have any." He clutched the boxes protectively in his lap.

Billy snorted. He tugged at the window crank on the driver's side door. "Are you warm enough?" he asked suddenly.

"Yeah." Machiavelli gestured to the pizzas in his lap. "It's like having an electric blanket on." He hummed under his breath and looked out the window, then turned to the American. "I like your short hair. You look very handsome."

Billy blinked at the Italian's openness. "Thank you." He grinned cheekily. "I am one handsome devil. You're not bad yourself." He spun the wheel, guiding the convertible into their driveway. When he had come to a stop, he reached across Machiavelli and tried to open the door, but couldn't quite make it. He gave up. "End of the road kid. Don't get up, I'll come open your door."

"Thank you," the Italian said when Billy came around. He allowed the American to pull the boxes out of his hand. They could hear the Pup barking excitedly from the front windows. "Hey, Billy's waiting for us."

"I still think that was a bad idea," Billy mumbled under his breath as they walked into the cabin. Billy promptly tripped over the cat. Machiavelli fared much better, sidestepping the cat and scooping her up. He followed the American immortal into the kitchen where the other immortals were gathered. Nicholas appeared to have been in the middle of a humorous story, but dropped it as the two wandering immortals came back in.

Perenelle drew Machiavelli in beside her. "You look quite handsome, Niccolò. And you must feel better."

Machiavelli grinned. "Much better. I never let my hair get that long."

"I thought you were kind of cute," Scathach called. She peeked into the two boxes and snagged the box with the cheese pizza, pulling it out of the Frenchman's hands. Nicholas protested slightly and followed her.

Machiavelli meanwhile, puffed out his chest. "I don't want to look cute," he said scandalized. He dropped the cat on the ground. "I'm a grown man." He yipped when Billy poked him in the side and sulked slightly. The Italian grabbed half of the pizza for himself and settled on the couch. Georgette slunk up behind him and nipped him on the ear. He held up a pepperoni which the tabby pulled from his grasp. Billy the Pup laid his head in the Italian's lap and looked up at the boy with big eyes.

"Make that the last one you give him," Billy called from the kitchen. Machiavelli ducked his head guiltily, but grinned back at the American. "Dog's going to be shitting all night and I'm going to be the one cleaning it up," Billy muttered, flopping onto the couch beside the Italian. He looked back at the Flamels who had sat down at the kitchen table. "Are we going to watch a movie?"

"Sure," Scathach agreed, climbing over the back of the couch and settling next to Machiavelli. She rubbed the tabby's ears. Georgette put up with it for half a minute and then climbed over to where Billy was sitting. "Cats," Scathach grumbled. "I like them, but they never like me."

"Believe me, I wish she liked you more right now," Billy said, holding his plate high in the air to keep the cat's tail out it. He stroked Georgette's back and the tabby folded into his lap. She held up her head and purred loudly. The American immortal hesitantly lowered his plate down to chest level and awkwardly chewed on his pizza.

Machiavelli wasn't paying attention to the immortal on either side of him. He bounced impatiently. "What are we watching?" He looked back at the Flamels, twisting in his seat. "What do you want to watch?"

Nicholas glanced at Perenelle. The Frenchwoman shrugged. "We really have no preference," she said.

"Excellent," Machiavelli said happily. He looked at Billy. "We should watch Spartacus."

"That show with the gladiators?" Billy said hesitantly. "The fights and the violence and the massive amount of sex... ("Sounds good," Scatty broke in). I don't think so, Mac," he said. "You're very little." The Italian opened his mouth to protest, but Billy cut him off. He waggled a finger in the boy's face. "You look very little still. I would still feel like a pervert, no matter how old you actually are." Machiavelli relented, very unhappily.

"We should watch Captain America," Scathach said from the Italian's right. The European immortals in the room universally nixed the idea.

"I've seen enough nationalism in my life," Machiavelli told her. She gave him a heavy shove.

"I thought it was a good idea," Billy told her over the Italian's head. "You'd still get the action and violence," he told Machiavelli, poking him in the side.

"I wanted the sex!" Machiavelli said rather loudly. He raised his hands to the ceiling, gesticulating slightly. "For the first time in weeks, I have hormones pumping through my veins. This is no time to watch documentaries on pigeons!"

"Ooh, do they have documentaries on pigeons?" Billy asked, grabbing the remote control. He laughed when Machiavelli smacked him. "We're getting off topic. We could watch Psycho or Monty Python or Airplane..."

"Isn't Airplane just as inappropriate as Spartacus?" Perenelle asked thoughtfully, dumping the contents of the brownie mix into a big bowl. She rooted around in the top drawer, looking for a whisk.

Billy pointed at her. "Yes, but there's less nudity. And it's hilarious." He grabbed Machiavelli's hand before the Italian could take a bite of his pizza. "How much pizza have you had so far?"

"Maybe five pieces," Machiavelli said innocently, leaning into to bite his pizza.

Billy let go of the boy's hand. "Did you never have food or something when you were a kid? You have almost no control over yourself."

"I'm a growing boy," Machiavelli defended himself. "Anyways, are we decided? Are we watching Airplane?" he asked, looking around the room.

Nicholas nodded. He squeezed in next to Scatty, who leaned heavily on his shoulder. "Sure," she said, grinning. "I love the scene when-"

"Don't tell me," Machiavelli broke in quickly. "I've never seen it before."

"Let's just say there's a nun involved," Billy said mysteriously.


	52. Chapter 52

Machiavelli woke up feeling an unpleasant tight sensation around his stomach the next morning. He took a couple of deep breaths, willing the feeling to go away, but it didn't. He rolled out of bed, moving painstakingly slow, and walked across the hall. "Oh, Billy, you let me eat too much," he groaned, as he crawled into bed beside the American.

Billy snuffled and threw an arm over the Italian. "Not my fault," the American slurred sleepily. "Told you to stop." Machiavelli just grunted and held his stomach. There had been a certain point of time last night when he had known that he should stop eating, but he hadn't. _In my defense, food hasn't tasted good in nearly five centuries_, he thought to himself. He coughed lightly, still trying to keep down his food. "Mac, sometimes the best thing to do is to throw up," Billy continued. "Preferably, not in my bed."

"I'm not going to throw up," Machiavelli said weakly. "At least, I hope I don't."

"I'd settle for a good crap," Billy whispered cheerfully. "Either way, you need to get some of that food out of you."

"Billy! That's disgusting," the Italian moaned. His stomach churned at the thought and he threw the blankets off of him. "I'll be back." He ran towards the bathroom and just barely managed to lift the toilet seat up before he expelled the contents of his stomach.

"You throw up a lot," Billy said critically from the doorway, having apparently followed the tiny tactician. He leaned on the frame, crossing his arms across his thin torso. "I hope it's not what we're feeding you."

"I've always had a very weak stomach," Machiavelli heaved from his kneeling position. He retched again and jumped slightly when he felt a cool cloth press against his neck. He looked up. Billy frowned at him sympathetically and wiped off the Italian's face. Machiavelli stood up gingerly. "I think I feel a little better though. I guess you were right."

"Of course I'm right," Billy said bluntly. "I had an enormous sweet tooth as a kid. I loved candy in particular, that's why my teeth stick out like they do. So consequently, I became very familiar with upset stomachs." The American led him back into his bedroom and climbed under the covers. "I also used to take care of my mother when she was ill," Billy said thoughtfully, holding the blanket up so that the Italian could climb in after him. Billy dropped the blanket around Machiavelli after the boy climbed in after him and leaned against Billy's arm. He could hear the thin immortal sigh happily as he settled back into the bed.

"Billy?"

"Mmm," Billy answered. He looked over at Machiavelli, drowsiness apparent in his features. "What's up baby boy?" Machiavelli punched him sharply. "Sugarplum?" Billy smiled wide, his big teeth flashing in the low light. The American closed his eyes again, but squeezed the Italian's hand to show he was still awake.

Billy's levity didn't make Machiavelli's question an easy one to ask, but he was genuinely curious about the answer. "Do you miss your mother?"

Billy's eyes slotted open. He was quiet for a while and Machiavelli was afraid he'd asked something he shouldn't have. "Yes, I miss my momma," Billy said eventually. His fingers traced around the Italian's hand. "When she died, I wanted to cry everyday but I had to be strong for Josie. My stepfather had gone away, if you remember."

"I remember," Machiavelli said softly. "Have you ever cried for her?"

Billy shifted uncomfortably. "Boys and men don't cry," he said firmly.

"Oh, that's stupid," the Italian said just as firmly. "We cry because we're human. I still cry when I think about one of the last conversations I had with Marietta. She said that I was an inhuman monster; that I was going to die alone." He paused. They both watched the sunlight creep across the ceiling. "I wish I could talk to my wife, Billy."

Billy looked up in surprise. "Why? What would you say?"

"If I could talk to her, I could show her I didn't turn out to be an inhuman monster." Machiavelli held out his arms out before him and let them fall down again; he turned back to look at the American. "I didn't, did I?"

Billy pulled him in close. "No, you didn't." He kissed Machiavelli on the side of his face, leaving a wet mark on the Italian's cheek. Machiavelli didn't try to wipe it away, instead concentrating on the deep breaths coming out of Billy. He forced himself to listen as Billy continued. "But you know, Mac, I think Marietta loved you as much as I do. She was just trying to save you."

The Italian leaned into him. "Maybe," he admitted. "But I'd like to know for sure. And I'd like to apologize for being such a horrible husband."

"Maybe Perenelle could help you," the American posited thoughtfully. "Supposedly, she can communicate with ghosts. Maybe she could find your wife."

Machiavelli looked at him quickly. "You think she could?"

"Well, we won't know until we ask," Billy said drowsily. "Who knows? Maybe she could find my momma. I'd love to see her again." He squeezed Machiavelli again. "I'd like her to meet you. Kind of a meet the family thing..."

~MB~

Georgette actually seemed to form a partiality to Billy over the next few days. Often, at the end of the day, Billy would sit by the fireplace and read from his book. The tabby would scamper in from wherever she'd been hiding and settle in behind the American.

Billy, for his part, seemed to enjoy the affection of the feline. From time to time, Machiavelli would catch the American, leaning back in the armchair with his hat over his eyes and the cat in a tight ball on his chest.

Machiavelli was surprised that Billy would be so content to lead a quiet life. He had thought that the American would require more adventure or danger. Once, he voiced that opinion to the outlaw. Billy just laughed.

"I do enjoy a good adventure," he admitted. "But I think our time on Alkatraz has cooled my desire for any real danger, at least for a little while." He thought for a moment. "Now that you mention it though, the cabin's all finished and together again. We should get you back on that horse."

The Italian was suddenly nervous. "I don't know Billy," he stammered. "Everybody's got something they're bad at. Maybe this is mine."

Billy tugged Machiavelli into his arms. He squeezed him tight. "Ah, Mac, when you fall of a horse, you have to get right back on. It's even an expression." He twirled the Italian around so that they were facing the same way and pulled him up into his lap. "This time, you'll ride with me, on the same horse, and I'll make sure nothing bad happens to you."

Machiavelli closed his eyes, Billy's voice calming him. "Okay," he agreed reluctantly. "But don't let go."

"I won't," Billy promised. "Don't worry, Mac. Riding horses is something I'm good at. Everything will be fine."


	53. Chapter 53

Machiavelli popped up by Scatty, leaning over the back of the couch to look at her laptop. He leaned over her shoulder, his cheek brushing against hers. She looked over at him and raised an eyebrow. "Who's that?" he asked innocently, indicating the picture on the website before them.

Scatty huffed at him, but turned the laptop slightly so that he could see the laptop straight on. "Apparently, it's Billy."

"What?" Machiavelli climbed over the back of the couch and wedged himself between Scatty and Perenelle. "I thought there was only one picture of him." He studied the picture before him. The boy in the picture did resemble Billy, but the Italian had a hard time picturing Billy ever being quite that young. Especially, the shy, neatly dressed boy in the picture.

Perenelle leaned slightly on the Italian, looking at the picture herself. "He does have Billy's ears and facial structure. But I guess we won't know until we ask Billy himself." She carefully settled her arm around the Italian's shoulders. Machiavelli leaned in to the touch.

"Where is Billy?" he asked her curiously. The American had told Machiavelli he would bring him to the stables this afternoon and then had promptly disappeared again. He felt his stomach grumble as it neared lunchtime.

Perenelle toyed with his hair. "I believe he is looking for something in the attic. He asked to keep you down here for the time being." She looked over at her husband. "You should go fetch him," she said. "It's nearly lunchtime."

"I could go get him," Machiavelli said, attempting innocence. It didn't work. Perenelle shook her head, Nicholas started for the stairs, and Scatty actually scoffed at him. He shrugged. "What's he looking for?" he whispered in Scatty's ear. "Come on, you can tell me."

"Bug off," she said, but without malice. Machiavelli giggled slightly and abruptly leaned closer to her and kissed her cheek. "What was that for?" Scatty hissed, turning almost as red as her hair.

Machiavelli shrugged, nonplussed. He didn't quite know why he had done it either, except that he felt a sudden surge of affection for the Shadow. "Thought it might work," he said cheekily. He lifted his chin. "I am irresistible." Scatty pinched her nose and shook her head, but Perenelle laughed from the Italian's other side. He grinned up at the older Frenchwoman, feeling pleasantly light at the moment.

~MB~

Following lunch, that pleasant feeling had almost entirely gone away. Machiavelli scrambled out of the car and followed Billy over to the stable, reluctant to ride again but unwilling to be left behind either. "I don't know, Billy," he said nervously. "Not everyone was meant to ride a horse. And in this day in age, I just think that..."

Billy kissed him on the side of the face, effectively cutting him off. "Listen, Mac, I know you're nervous after last time but things are going to be fine. I should have put you back on the horse right away." He finished tightening the saddle onto the horse, a bay mare, and led them both into the coral.

"Would that have made things better? Would things have seemed less scary now?" Machiavelli asked somewhat frantically. "Please, Billy, don't put me back on the horse."

Billy leaned down a bit so that he could look the Italian square in the eye. Machiavelli wanted to look away, unnerved by the interaction, but Billy gently held his face where it was. "Are you really that nervous?" The Italian jerked his head noncommittally. Billy straightened up again. "It's not going to be so bad, Mac," he assured him. He tugged the Italian to the side. "Listen, sweetheart, I'll never make you do something dangerous. But I think it's important that you face your fears. Give it a try. For me?"

"Okay," Machiavelli agreed, reluctance clear. "But you promised you'd sit behind me."

"Sure." Billy hefted him onto the horse. Machiavelli swallowed hard and hung on tight to the horn of the saddle. Billy swung himself up onto the saddle. "Well, this is cozy," he said happily. He pulled Machiavelli in close to his torso, his arms protectively encircling the boy. The two were now close enough that the Italian could feel Billy squeeze the sides of the horse with his thighs lightly. He swallowed as the horse began to walk forward.

Machiavelli didn't know where to put his hands. He rested them on the saddle, then decided he wanted something more solid and grabbed at Billy's arms. He sharply inhaled and moved his head a fraction to look back at the American immortal. "Billy-?"

Billy switched the reins to one hand. "Put them here," he said, guiding Machiavelli's hands to the reins. He covered Machiavelli's hands with his own, the callouses of his hand rubbing at the Italian's knuckles. He kept up a steady stream of encouragement. "There you go. See, you're fine. We won't go any faster than this." The outlaw's confidence hung in the air around them.

Machiavelli could feel is breathing finally beginning to steady. It was s till a strange feeling, balancing on the horse's back. He wasn't completely ready to give up on his fears though, feeling the pinpricks of goosebumps creeping up his arms. "What if the horse panics again?" he asked, trying to sound nonchalant. His voice quivered.

"We're going to be fine," Billy said, repeating his familiar mantra. "I can handle it." He reached forward and slapped the horse's neck. "She's a good horse, not going to do anything. And we're only going to go around the pasture once."

Machiavelli half turned to look at the American before he remembered where he was and straightened quickly. "We're only going around once?"

"Sure," Billy said amiably. "I'm going to ease you into it. Horse riding should be fun, not stressful." They rounded the last corner and Billy stopped the horse. He pushed off and touched down lightly. "I'll bring you around again tomorrow morning, if you want," he told the Italian, helping Machiavelli dismount.

"What are we going to do now?" Machiavelli asked curiously as they led the horse back to the barn. He began to brush down the horse, leaving Billy to do some of the heavier tasks.

"Well, after we're done here, I wanted to go to the bookstore. So I can drop you off at home or you can come with me."

"I'll come with you," Machiavelli said at once. "I need some new books. I've read everything on the shelf in my room." He placed the stable supplies back in their spot. "You haven't read to me in a while," he remarked. "Why not?"

Billy made a face. "I thought you might feel you were too old to be read to now."

"No, I like you reading to me," Machiavelli said shyly. He shuffled his feet on the hay strewn floor. "My papa used to read to me too. Of course I found out later that most of the stories he read to me were actually based on real things," he commented as they walked back to the car. He climbed in to the passenger seat. "That was both exciting and terrifying and somewhat disappointing, if you know what I mean.

"Ah, you mean like how it's kind of disappointing that they've probably found Jack the Ripper's true identity," Billy theorized. He glanced at the Italian as he started the car up. "You were alive when he was killing. What was that like?"

"Frightening. Those were dark times." Machiavelli shivered slightly before he continued. "But not nearly as frightening for me as it would have been for others. Even if I had been mortal at the time, I wasn't a woman or a prostitute so I just had to worry about the normal dangers of walking in London after dark."

"Well, let's agree not to get any books on Jack the Ripper for our little read alouds," Billy said, turning onto the main road.


	54. Chapter 54

"It's not such a bad life we're living, is it?" Billy asked the next morning. He swung up behind the Italian. "I mean, we essentially have no obligations and we get to ride horses every day. And swimming, we go swimming a lot too," he added as an afterthought.

"We live a good life," Machiavelli agreed distractedly. He pressed his body heavily into the American's, wondering how it was possible to balance on a horse. "Billy, do you think I'll ever be comfortable riding horses?"

"I think so," Billy said. "I mean you were before, weren't you? Before the accident, I mean."

"It was fun before that," Machiavelli acknowledged, looking down on the ground and sharply looking up again. "I'm just still a bit nervous, I guess. Let's talk about something else. Let's talk about," he paused, "that book you starting reading me last night. What's it called?"

"The Bridge to Terabithia," Billy supplied. "I read it all the way through last night after you went to sleep."

"How does it end?" Machiavelli asked, swiveling slightly.

The outlaw punched him lightly on the shoulder. "I'm not going to tell you. That would ruin the book!"

"Oh, but Billy, it would make me feel better," Machiavelli wheedled.

Billy shook his head. "Nothing doing."

"Well then what are we going to talk about?" the Italian asked, pouting slightly. A thought struck him. "Could you teach me how to lasso?"

Billy shifted. "I suppose so. Why do you want to know how to lasso?"

~MB~

"So, you're feeling better about being back on the horse?" Perenelle asked the Italian over dinner. She doled out some mashed potatoes onto his plate and handed the bowl to Scatty. She looked down at the boy.

Machiavelli shrugged slightly, aware that Billy probably could pick up on whatever his body language was saying. "I guess so." He pushed the potatoes around on his plate and began to mix them with his carrots. He perked up. "He taught me how to lasso."

"Was he any good at it?" Scatty called across to Billy.

"Unfortunately," Billy said, rubbing his shoulder. "I was his target for a while. He nearly choked me at one point," he said, pointing to the Italian. Machiavelli smiled innocently at the American.

"Why didn't you use a fence post?" Nicholas said, taking the plate of biscuits.

Billy stole the biscuit the Frenchman had just buttered. "This one," he nodded at the boy, "convinced me that I'd be a better target."

"And weren't you?" Machiavelli said happily. "I learned, didn't I?"

"I suppose so," Billy sighed. "But we're putting this on the list of things that I don't like. I'm going to get a pen and paper, right now." He got up and rooted around in the junk drawer. "So what did you guys do today?" he called over his shoulder.

"We made a pie today," Scatty called back, indicating herself and Perenelle. "Bring it over, we're going to be done soon."

"Am I getting facial hair?" Machiavelli asked suddenly. He examined his reflection in his spoon.

Billy squinted across at him in disbelief. He set the pie down at the end of the table. "Mac, you didn't even have facial hair when you were an adult." He paused. "And, what?"

"What's the matter?" Machiavelli asked, surprised.

Scatty tapped him on the shoulder. "It was a very sudden shift in the conversation. You see, we were talking about pie. You're talking about bodily functions."

"Is that so wrong?" the Italian said mildly. "I get very sudden mood shifts. Is that wrong? What kind of pie are we having?" He looked around the table. The other immortals stared back at him. Machiavelli held out a carrot to the Pup. The dog crunched on it and licked his hand.

"Apple," Perenelle answered finally.

Nicholas leaned forward a little. He accepted a piece of pie from Billy. "Did you smoke a lot of pot back in the day?" he asked the Italian. Machiavelli just laughed. He fed the dog a bit of crust from the pie.

"You didn't answer the man," Billy said suspiciously. "And stop feeding the animals!" They hang around you like you're their mother."

"Have some pie, honey," Machiavelli said. "You know, what I want? I want you to play the piano for me? You do it so well."

"I don't know," Scatty broke in. "I think he's putting you on."

Billy nodded and grinned. "But he did call me honey and he never does that. So I think I will play for him." Machiavelli opened his mouth and Billy cut him off. "But not right now. I want pie right now." And he cut himself a third of the pie. The rest of the dinner went on smoothly, though it seemed like Machiavelli was beginning to harp on puberty a bit more than he had been in the past week. The others attributed his focus to the rapidly increasing changes that the Italian seemed to be going through.

"Are you going to play the piano now?" Machiavelli asked immediately after they were done. He clattered around the kitchen, clearing the plates off of the table in record time. "Where are you guys going?" he asked as the other immortals prepared to leave.

"We're tired, kid," Scatty said, bending over to kiss the Italian's cheek. "We cleaned the cabin top to bottom today. I mean we really scrubbed this place." She patted his cheek.

"Sleep tight, sweetie," Perenelle said, squeezing him in a hug. Billy waved to them from his place at the piano.

Machiavelli heard the door click behind them. He turned to face the American who was playing some scales. "You like playing the piano?" Machiavelli asked. He lay on his stomach on the couch, watching Billy's fingers move across the ivories. The way his fingers moved and bended, the Italian thought that even if he went deaf he would want to watch Billy play; it was like watching a precious form of art come out. Singular and rare, each movement lasted only a moment before it died.

Billy glanced back at him. A smile tugged at his lips, but it was his eyes which shone. "I do." He began to pick out the rhythm to a song that was familiar to the Italian, though he couldn't place it.

"I never thought you'd be a piano player," Machiavelli confessed. He rested his chin on the back of his hands. "You don't think of outlaws as having much time for a formal musical education."

Billy dipped his head in acknowledgment. "Well I don't know much about a formal musical education, but I do play the piano nonetheless. I picked it up from a saloon player back when I lived in Silver City as a kid. My mother and I used to go to dances that would be put on." He gazed into his reflection in the top of the piano. "I was her escort," he continued. "Or at least that's what she told me. She said a proper lady wouldn't go to such things without a strong man to keep her safe. That was me," he said unnecessarily. "I was the man supposed to keep her safe."

The Italian turned on his side. "But you weren't a man yet, you were just a boy."

"Oh, well, we both knew that. But my mother would say I was the man of the house and I thought that was nice, like I was special. After she died, that all kind of went away. I've never been special to anybody like that ever again." Billy's voice saddened slightly at the end of his little speech. He began to play a faster piece. "You shouldn't have bought me this piano, Mac."

"Why?" The Italian asked in surprise. He swung off the couch and came to stand beside Billy, watching the American's fingers fly across the keys. Billy stopped playing altogether, just as quickly.

"It cost too much," Billy complained. "I'll never be able to pay you back."

"I don't want you to pay me back," Machiavelli protested. He sat on the bench beside Billy and the American moved over slightly to give him room. "I bought it to make you happy. That's what I want." He lightly pressed down on middle C. "Play something for me, Billy."

Billy squinted at him before glancing down at the piano. He tapped out 'Mary had a little Lamb' and grinned at the Italian. Machiavelli shook his head and began to slide off of the piano bench. "Oh, don't go, I was just kidding." The American slung an arm around Machiavelli shoulders and pulled him in close. He pressed his lips to the boy's temple and then began to sing. "_Remember when the days were long and rolled beneath a deep blue sky..._"


	55. Chapter 55

"Scathach. Scatty," Machiavelli called. He stood over the Shadow. He pushed on her shoulder experimentally. Scatty snorted. "Come on, wake up. You said you hardly ever sleep, why'd it have to be today?"

The Shadow mumbled and turned over.

"Scatty," Machiavelli hissed. He climbed onto her bed and leaned close to her face.

It was at this moment that Scathach began to wake up. Her bright green eyes opened suddenly and there was a moment where they stared at each other, green eyes and gray eyes locked in to each other. It was over almost before it started. Scathach suddenly propelled into action, flipping the Italian over.

"Don't kill me, it's me, Niccolò," Machiavelli gasped. He pulled her hands away from his neck. Scatty relaxed and sat back, stretched her arms out. "Uh, Scatty, you're still sitting on my knees and it's starting to get just faintly uncomfortable-"

"I know," Scatty said grumpily. She pushed her hair back before leaning over the Italian so that their noses were nearly touching. Her hair fell forward again, a few strands landing on the boy's face. "Do you know how often I sleep?" Machiavelli shook his head numbly. "Once every couple hundred years," she snarled and rolled off of the boy's knees at last.

Machiavelli made a strange squeaky noise and took a deep breath in to compose himself. He was surprised when Scatty lied back down next to him. "I'm sorry I woke you," he said and was glad his voice had gone back to normal. He turned his head so that he could look at her while he talked. "Truly I am. I just didn't expect you to be asleep. I thought you didn't have to..." he trailed off.

"I require a lot less sleep than humani or even immortals," Scathach admitted, somewhat icily. She yawned and seemed to decompress a little. "It's alright. But you should probably know that I am cranky when woken up. So what do you need?"

The Italian flexed his leg, feeling the cotton of the sheets run across his skin. "I want to see what's under the workbench. I was hoping you'd lift the bench for me while I get it out."

"You woke me up because you want to know what's under a work bench?" Scatty climbed out of bed and tied her hair back. "We haven't been in there in days."

"I'm a curious boy," he said in his most winning voice. He had woken up early in the morning and the thought had occurred to him, suddenly, that they had never found out what was under the bench. So around six in the morning, he finally couldn't take it anymore and had slipped into the guest house with the intention of finding the Shaodow. Except that now that he was lying down again, he was really quite comfortable, and had no inclination to leave.

Scatty glanced at him. She sighed. "Fine, I'll help you. But first I'd like to get dressed." Machiavelli hummed happily and closed his eyes. "Uh, kid," Scatty put her hands on her hips which only served to refocus the Italian's attention on her bikini. He was entranced looking at the seam where the blue of the underwear met her pale skin. Scatty tapped him on the forehead. "I'm not the most private of people, but..."

"Oh, scusi," the Italian said. He crawled out of her bed. "For a moment, I felt like I was married again. A fight, a roll in the bed, forgiveness, now you're kicking me out..." He shuffled by. "I miss being married."

"Well, I'm sorry, but I don't want to be naked in front of you." Scathach held the door open for him.

"Just like being married..."

~MB~

"This better be something good," Scatty called as she ducked into the small shed. "I hope it's something interesting," she mumbled under her breath.

"I hope so too," Machiavelli told her. "Things are going to be more boring with half of our group missing." He followed her over to the work bench and bent low. With a flash light, he located the object he had been reaching for earlier that week. "There it is."

"Okay," Scatty said cheerfully. She wrenched the workbench up and held it with one hand. The Italian glanced at her cautiously before slipping under the table.

"Got it!" Machiavelli cried. He pulled the leather bundle out from underneath the bench. He backed up a little and Scatty dropped the workbench. "Let's see what it is," he mumbled in Italian. He unwrapped the bundle. The leather flaked where he unfolded it.

"Looks like a very old pair of leg irons," Scatty commented. She touched the heavy links, taking one of the cuffs from the Italian. She grinned cheekily. "Maybe Billy likes to be cuffed." Machiavelli blushed bright red.

"No, I don't like being restrained." A ghost of a smile fleeted across the American's face. "Not for what you're thinking of," he repeated shyly.

Machiavelli dropped the leg irons with a loud clunk. The heavy metal braces actually took a chunk of wood off the edge of the workbench. Somehow, impossibly, the Italian blushed a deeper shade of red and he looked down. "How long have you been there?"

Billy sipped from his coffee cup. "Long enough. You found my old leg irons." There was something in the American's voice that made Machiavelli look up. Billy's face was impassive though. The American didn't look at all happy to see the leg irons again and Machiavelli instantly regretted that he had looked for them in the first place.

"So where'd you pick up these, anyways?"Scathach asked, waving the leg irons she'd recovered from the ground.

Billy walked into the shed. He set his coffee cup on the workbench and addressed the Shadow. Behind him, Machiavelli sipped from his mug and grimaced at the weak taste. The American immortal didn't seem to notice. "Ah," Billy breathed. He picked up the leg irons from the ground. "These were the irons I had on when I escaped from prison for the last time. They go along with these." He opened a drawer on the bench and pulled out a pair of old handcuffs. The chains were so big on the handcuff that the whole contraption was actually stiff. Billy fit the handcuffs around the Italian's wrist. "Don't worry, I won't actually lock them."

Machiavelli hefted his arm. "These are really heavy, Billy."

"I know," the American said. He undid the cuffs and fit them on his own wrist. This time, the American did close the contraption entirely. The handcuffs fit together with a grating squeal. He held up a hand. "Try to fit a finger in between them and my wrist. Any room?" Machiavelli shook his head, then watched astounded as the American slipped his hand out again.

"How'd you do that?"

Billy held up his arm. "My hand's as wide as my wrist is, so whenever they put them on me, I could just slip out again."

"So this is how you escaped," the Italian said, taking the handcuffs from Billy. He put his hand in the cuffs again and slipped it out back out again. "I wondered about you."

"Mmm," Billy murmured, picking up his coffee cup again. He cocked his eyebrows, clearly unsure as to why there was less coffee than there had been before, but then shrugged and took another sip. "I actually just took one side off and swung the other side to knock out my guard." He shuffled his feet. "I ended up knocking him down the stairs which I've always felt really bad about.

"Well that explains how you got out of the handcuffs," Scathach surmised. "But how'd you managed to break these?" she asked curiously, turning over the heavy iron contraption in her hand.

"With a pick ax," Billy said, pointing to said ax which was leaning up in the back corner of the shed. Machiavelli stared a little. "I'm surprised you didn't notice it the other day when you were poking around."

"I didn't see it," Machiavelli said, edging off of the bench where he had been sitting. "How much stuff is in this place?"

Billy waved his hand dismissively. "Oh, there's all kinds of shit stocked up in here. Search to your heart's content." He downed the rest of his coffee and shuddered. "I'm going to go into town and pick up some stuff. Why don't you look around?"

"Okay," Machiavelli said cautiously. "What are you going into town for? Do you not want me to come with you?"

"Oh, babycakes-" Machiavelli scowled, especially when Scatty laughed, "I always love you being with me. But I'm going to be doing some boring errands. I thought you might rather stay here and have some fun instead."

~MB~

Machiavelli crept out into the hallway, late that night, praying that Billy was asleep. He pushed against his door slowly, thankful when the hinges didn't squeak. He padded down the hallway, sidestepping the loose floorboard. He sighed, thinking he had made it all the way to the bathroom. Sighed, and walked right into the grandfather clock. He fell with a loud crash.

"Mac?" Billy asked, his voice thick with sleep. The American came out into the hallway and leaned on his door frame. He scratched at his stomach. "What are you doing up?"

"Nothing," Machiavelli lied, hiding his underwear behind his back. Under no circumstance was he going to tell Billy why he was standing in the hall at this late hour. Nor would he think of the handcuffs again, if he could help it... "I just need to use the bathroom is all." He edged towards the room and away from Billy.

The American gave him a strange look, but went back into his bedroom.

Machiavelli heaved a sigh of relief. He shut the bathroom door behind him and tossed his shorts into the bathroom hamper. He stood in front of the toilet. "Over five hundred years old and having wet dreams, what a life," he mumbled furiously. As he washed his hands, he looked at his reflection in the mirror. "At least I don't have acne. I think I'd kill myself if I got acne," he moaned.


	56. Chapter 56

"The leaves are beginning to change color," Machiavelli observed. He twisted in his chair to look back at the trees lining the lake. Billy the Pup was snuffling around the edge of the woods, obviously tracking something.

Billy glanced up from where he was lying on the dock. He set his book on his chest. "Trees always change color quicker around the water," he mumbled.

"I wonder why." The American shrugged and Machiavelli frowned at his counterpart. He leaned over the American so their noses were practically touching. "I thought you were a curious person like me."

The outlaw yawned loudly before answering. "Listen, Mac, with the schooling I got, I'm just lucky to be able to read and write properly." He sat up and kicked his legs slightly. The water of the lake rippled and made waves. "Do you know that one time, the roof on my school collapsed?"

"Mah! What?" Machiavelli asked, scandalized. "Where on earth did you go to school? I got a better education than that and I'm three hundred years older than you."

Billy grinned and rubbed his palms together. The book fell off of his chest as he sat up and he caught it and set it aside. The Italian recognized the beginning signs of one of Billy's stories. The American immortal had several cues he gave off when he was about to share something he thought was funny. "I went to school in Silver City," the outlaw began eagerly. "And my education was very fragmented, you might say because back then the government did not pay teachers and so it came down to what the town wanted to pay. The town usually didn't want to pay anything, so we spent a lot of time roving the streets." Billy's eyes glinted with excitement. "Anyways, on one of the rare occasions that we had a teacher, we got a very rare downpour. Now most of the buildings in Silver City were adobe clay which gets heavy when it is wet. So you can imagine that our little school house with its clay roof didn't stand much of a chance."

"But it just collapsed," Machiavelli asked incredulously. "Did it collapse on you?" he asked suddenly.

"Yes, Mac, but I managed to dodge it all," Billy said sarcastically. The Italian felt a little bit stupid and he scowled at the blue eyed immortal. He didn't like it when their roles were reversed. Billy continued as if Machiavelli hadn't interrupted. "The roof collapsed in the middle of the night. We went to school the next day and found this huge mess." He swept his hands wide, as if the mess was still before them. Machiavelli wondered if the American could actually still see the mud. Billy seemed to be done with his story however, because he shifted the direction of their conversation. "You're much smarter than me, Mr. Machiavelli. Maybe you can teach me some things."

"I did promise I would," Machiavelli acknowledged. "And I'm going to learn from you, too." The Italian slipped out of his lawn chair and settled beside Billy on the end of the dock. "Why don't you pursue higher education? You have innate intelligence."

The outlaw shrugged. "I've never been that smart, Mac. You just wish I was smarter so that you wouldn't be embarrassed to be around me," he teased.

Machiavelli looked scandalized. "I'm never embarrassed to be with you!"

Billy smiled slightly. He bumped shoulders with the boy. "Fine. But I'm still incredibly lazy. And I've always had a bit of an issue with authority. So I don't think I'd enjoy being in college now." He grabbed up his book again.

Machiavelli wanted to say more to the American on the topic, but let it go for the time being. He stood up. "I'm going to go put on my bathing suit." Billy nodded, not lifting his eyes form the book.

The Italian ran back to the house. He passed Perenelle in the living room and waved, before pounding up the steps. He pawed through his clothes, looking for a pair of swim shorts, and finally found one tossed in the corner of the bathroom. The shorts were a light gray that Scatty had picked out for him, having matched them to his eyes apparently. He pulled them on quickly and looked at his reflection critically. _Scrawny, I've always been scrawny,_ he thought to himself and shook his head. Machiavelli ran back to the docks, briefly considered jumping off, but decided that he might get Billy's book wet and skidded to a stop instead. He climbed down the ladder and into the water.

The water was incredibly cold. Machiavelli took a deep breath, pinched his nose, and sank under the water. He began to dog paddle towards Billy, coming up around the American's' legs. He grabbed at the legs, pulling jokingly at them. The Italian gasped when Billy straightened out his legs suddenly and he was abruptly pulled out of the water. Billy dropped his legs as he sat up and Machiavelli plunged back into the water. "Aren't you going to come in?" the Italian immortal asked, spitting out a mouthful of water.

"Mm?" Billy looked up. "I could," he said thoughtfully. Then the outlaw brightened. "I shall," he said decisively. He stuck his book into a Ziploc bag and tossed the book onto Machiavelli's lawn chair. Likewise, he pulled his shirt off and tossed it on the chair.

"Aren't you going to go change?" Machiavelli asked, treading water and trying not to stare too much at Billy.

"No." Billy left his shorts on and jumped into the lake. The water came down on Machiavelli in a huge wave. "Changing takes time," the American remarked as he resurfaced. He shook his head and wiped at his eyes. "Wet, isn't it?"

The Italian ignored Billy's last comment. "You're too impatient, just like all Americans." But he allowed himself to be pulled out further into the lake.

Billy bobbed up and down. "Yes," he agreed affably. He turned Machiavelli so that the Italian could see the center of the lake and not the shore. "But I have a good time." He flipped around so they were facing the same direction. "I'll race you to the raft out there." And he took off. Machiavelli looked after him for the briefest of seconds before his reflexes kicked in and he began to frantically paddle after the outlaw. Billy made it to the raft long before the Italian. He pulled himself up and grinned happily. "I won!" he crowed. "We should have made a bet."

"What would you have bet?" Machiavelli asked curiously. He held out a hand to the American. Billy grabbed it without hesitation and hoisted the boy up. Machiavelli instantly regretted exiting the water. Goosebumps formed on the surface of his skin and he shivered slightly as he looked over at the American.

Billy rubbed at the stubble on his face. "Hmm," he drawled, thinking hard. _Probably would have me wash his car_, the Italian decided. "I think a moment of honesty," the outlaw decided and Machiavelli blinked. Billy leaned in closer. "I think I'd like one moment where we have to be honest, no matter what."

"Why, you think I've been lying to you?" Machiavelli asked. The idea stung him slightly. He slipped back into the water, feeling some of the coldness leave him.

"No," Billy said immediately. The Italian felt better instantaneously. "But wouldn't it be nice to have this kind of thing to rely on?"

"Sure," Machiavelli agreed instantly. He floated on his back, thinking of the possibilities. _What would he ask Billy if he knew for one moment that the American could not lie? And what would Billy ask him?_ He flipped back over and tread water. The idea was dangerous and yet intriguing. "Billy, I'm going to let you have it."

"Let me have-?" Billy slid back into the water himself. He wet his hair and waited for the Italian's answer.

"The bet," Machiavelli said earnestly. "You can have it. Someday, you can force me to tell you the truth even if I don't want to." Machiavelli felt faintly pleased with himself. It was a peculiar feeling. He felt that he had opened himself up for something unknown and potentially dangerous, but he was gambling that the unknown thing would ultimately be good.

"Huh," Billy said, surprised. "And you don't mind if I save this for later?" Machiavelli tilted his head and hesitated, then nodded. A grin unfurled on the American's face. "I accept your offer. In fact," he paused, "let's make this an equal trade. You can ask the same of me, anytime."

Machiavelli shook his hand formally. "Deal. Now let's race to the dock." And he took off.


	57. Chapter 57

"Does he seem moodier sometimes?" Scathach asked Billy, muttering out of the side of her mouth so that the Italian couldn't hear her.

Billy looked out the window where Machiavelli was running around with the Pup. The husky bounced around the boy, nipping occasionally at his ankles. "No, he's still my sweet boy." The American flinched a little when Machiavelli tumbled to the ground. He began to edge towards the door and the Italian immortal. "I think I'll just check on him."

Scatty stopped him with a sharp look of disbelief. "He's fine. But he definitely seems a little off sometimes. Doesn't he? Like this morning…" She looked at him expectantly.

"Alright, maybe sometimes he's a bit crankier than usual," Billy conceded quietly. He looked around the room before continuing. In a low voice, he mumbled in her ear. "I think he's starting to go through puberty."

"At twelve?" Scathach leaned back. "He's a bit of a late bloomer, isn't he?"

"No, I think he's within the average age range. Let's see, when I was a kid, I was always so small that it was hard to say when I went through puberty." Billy ruffled his hair. "Anyways, I was in no rush for him to become a teenager. I like him as a little boy. I like him as a man." He shook his head. "It's this in between time that I'm worried about."

They looked up as Nicholas came over. "What are you two talking about?" he asked curiously, his French accent creeping into his speech. Billy looked at Scatty and Scatty looked at him. The Shadow began to laugh.

"Puberty," Scathach said, grinning.

Nicholas wrinkled his nose slightly. "Ah," was all he said. "Poor Niccolò, I forgot he was going to have to go through with that again."

Billy looked thoughtful. "Everybody's experience with puberty is different. I wonder how Mac's going to experience it? You think he's going to be a nightmare?" He looked over at his companions. They shrugged and Billy went on. "I know it must have happened to you," he said, pointing to Nicholas, "But what about you?" He looked over at the Shadow.

Scathach looked surprised. "I don't really remember. I guess I must have..." She trailed off, frowning slightly. She cocked her head. "Maybe it was something I blocked out."

Nicholas raised his eyebrows. "I don't really remember either. It's been several centuries since then." He frowned slightly. "Niccolò doesn't seem too bad right now. I can't imagine that he would make things difficult on purpose." The Alchemyst stood up. "Anyway, I just came in to let you know that Perenelle and I are going out for dinner. We'll be back sometime later in the evening."

"Have fun," Billy said, clapping him on the shoulder.

"Behave," Scatty added. The two immortals went back to discussing Machiavelli but were cut off almost immediately by the Italian himself who made a sudden entrance.

"Billy!" Machiavelli came limping into the kitchen from the outside. The screen door shut with a clatter and he glanced at it. Both the immortals at the table stopped talking immediately.

Billy glanced over at Scatty with a guilty expression on his face that the Italian missed. He cast around for a quick change in topic. "Mac, we're in the middle of a conversation here," he reproached. His expression softened. "What's up?"

Machiavelli drew back, slightly hurt. "No, it's okay," he mumbled. "I'm just going to…" he fumbled with the words and headed back towards the door.

Scatty got up out of her chair. "Come back, kid. It's alright." She drew the Italian immortal back to the table and forced him into her chair. She wandered over the fridge from where she pulled a carton of raspberries out and began to pop them in her mouth.

"I'm sorry I interrupted," Machiavelli mumbled quietly, refusing to look Billy in the eye. He bit the inside of his lip, suddenly feeling the urge to cry. The sudden influx of emotions confused him. "I fell down." He pointed to his leg where a steady trickle of blood flowed from a long cut.

Billy inspected the gash in the Italian's leg. "That's a nasty cut, Mac," he said gently. He rose from his chair and looked for the first aid kid under the sink. "How'd you manage to get that?"

"I didn't do it on purpose," Machiavelli protested sharply. His voice rose slightly.

Billy straightened up with the kit in hand. "I know that, Mac," he said, coming back to sit by the Italian. "I just wondered how you got cut like this. It's fairly deep." He began to wipe away the blood with a damp towel, carefully cleaning.

Machiavelli wilted slightly, the stronger emotions falling away just as fast as they had come. "I fell out of the tree I was climbing. There was a stick coming out of the ground. I fell on it." Machiavelli winced as Billy applied the antiseptic to his scratch. "I guess I should have paid more attention to what I was doing."

Billy taped down some gauze to his leg and made a motion with his hand. "Kids get hurt all the time. I got some awful wounds growing up."

"Me, too," Scatty called from her place on the counter. She grinned at Machiavelli, but the Italian just stared at his feet. Billy and she exchanged worried looks when he made no response.

"Hey, Mac, I didn't mean to snap at you before," Billy said, touching the Italian's shoulder.

Machiavelli moved away from his touch, feeling a burning sensation forming in the back of his throat. "It's okay," he said, edging towards the door. "I'm okay. I'm just going to go out again I think," he said fumbling with the door handle. He pushed it open. "Bye!"

"What just happened?" Billy wondered out loud.

Scatty patted his shoulder. "Congrats. You're father to a preteen now."

The American slumped in his chair. "I want my baby back."


	58. Chapter 58

"You have some mail," Nicholas told the Italian at the breakfast table the next morning. He placed the letter carefully down by the other European immortal and settled in next to his wife.

Machiavelli straightened up from where he had been slumped over a bowl of cereal. "Me?" he asked dubiously, looking over at the Alchemyst. "Who would be writing to me?"

"I'd write to you," Billy said, grinning at him from across the table.

"That's stupid," the Italian told him. "We live together. It's a waste of a stamp."

Billy's grin dimmed significantly. He looked rather hurt actually, the Italian observed with a certain uneasiness. The Kid shrugged. "I love you more than forty seven cents, sweetheart. I think it would be worth it."

"Don't call me sweetheart," Machiavelli grumbled, reaching for his letter. Scatty opened her mouth, presumably to reproach the boy. Across the table, Billy shook his head slightly and waved a hand, signaling her not to say anything. Scatty unwillingly chomped down again. Billy smiled at her, but it wasn't his usual smile. He turned to Perenelle to begin a conversation, awkwardly working around the sudden silence.

"Who's it from?" Perenelle asked at last. She handed Billy another piece of toast, but trained her eyes on the Italian immortal. Machiavelli had the strange sensation that she was looking into him, instead of at him.

"John."

"Your friend?" Perenelle pressed. By the counter, Scatty threw up her hands, clearly frustrated with his monosyllabic answer. The Shadow pulled Billy up out of his chair. The American reluctantly followed her, _presumably to talk about him_, Machiavelli thought darkly. He swirled his cereal around, turning it to mush.

"Yeah."

The Sorceress sighed. "If you don't want to talk…" she trailed off. She picked up his cereal bowl and moved over to the sink to wash it out.

"His father came back and is trying to fix things. They're going to move in with him in Washington."

"I'm sorry," Perenelle said quietly, not turning from her place by the sink. Machiavelli nodded, but wasn't sure she saw him. The Italian didn't know how to react or what to think. He shrugged and read the letter over again.

"I'm going to write John a letter," he said decisively, grabbing a red pen from the junk drawer. After rooting around for some lined paper in the desk, he sat back down again. Machiavelli chewed on the end of his pen, thinking about what to write. Georgette knocked a bowl off of the counter and it shattered on the ground. Both the Flamels and Machiavelli jumped at the sound of the impact, and the Italian bit down hard on the pen. It broke in his mouth. "Mmph!"

The two older immortals swiveled to look at him. To guess from Perenelle's horrified look, he had to guess that it looked like he was bleeding profusely from the mouth. "Is that the pen?" Nicholas asked hesitantly, touching Machiavelli's elbow. The Italian nodded and hurtled toward the sink where he began to spit the ink into the basin.

Billy chose that moment to come down from upstairs. "I heard something break," he said, and then paused. His slight frown slid off of his face as he took in the scene in front of him. "What the hell? You're bleeding," he told the Italian, crossing the room in two long strides.

"No, I'm-"

Billy cut him off and looked over at the Flamels. Perenelle was scooping the broken glass off the ground with a duster. "Why aren't you more concerned?" he asked, somewhat hysterically. "Look at him!"

"But, Billy!"

Billy scooped Machiavelli up in his arms, which wasn't easy, as Machiavelli was getting taller by the day. "Not now, Mac, you're bleeding from the mouth! We've got to bring you to the hospital."

"Billy-"

The American bounced him slightly and turned around to face Perenelle. "You know how to drive, don't you? Couldn't you bring us?"

Next to his wife, Nicholas put a calming hand. "Billy, listen to me. Machiavelli isn't bleeding from the mouth. He broke a red pen in his mouth."

Billy set the Italian down. "Not bleeding from the mouth?" He pulled open the Italian's mouth. "It looks really bad, sweetheart."

"I'm fine really," Machiavelli mumbled. He made a face as he tasted the ink and grabbed a towel from the oven; he began dabbing his mouth with the towel attempting to get the ink out of his mouth. "And don't call me sweetheart. Remember? I'm not a little boy." He threw the towel on the table and began to scrape his tongue with his front teeth.

"Right," Billy said dropping into a chair. "I forgot." He pulled his laptop closer to him from the sideboard and began to type. "Here, Mac, this is what google says about getting ink out of your mouth. Whatever you do, don't swallow. Then we'll have to call poison control." He pointed at the Italian with a stern expression on his face which looked incredibly out of place for the Kid. Billy poured a glass of milk for the Italian. "Hold it in your mouth and then spit it out."

Machiavelli complied, rather unwillingly. He tried to spit very quietly and was revolted as he watched the milk and the red ink drain away in the sink.

Scatty peeped over Billy's shoulder. She had apparently followed him downstairs, though in the mayhem, Machiavelli wasn't quite sure when she had shown up. She tapped on the computer screen. "This one says we should put shortening in his mouth and then wash it out." She began to look through the cabinets for the Crisco container. "Here, kid, stop with the milk for a bit. Open your mouth." She put a dab of shortening in his mouth.

Billy gazed critically into the Italian's mouth. "It's mostly gone. Thank god for the internet." He wiped away at the Italian's mouth with a damp paper towel and tossed it in the garbage. "There you go, sweet-" He stopped himself just in time. "There you go, Mac."

"I think I'm going to brush my teeth," Machiavelli said, getting to his feet. He padded up the steps, muttering to himself. Billy sat at the kitchen table and watched him storm off. A closed expression came across the Kid's face.

"What was all that about?" Nicholas asked, sitting beside the American.

Billy looked up. "Oh, he's just getting a bit moody because of the changes his body's going through." He scooped Georgette off the ground and held her in a football hold. "Hi, sweety, are you causing mischief? That's no good." The cat mewed.

~MB~

Machiavelli wanted nothing better than to sit and read his book all day. Billy had gotten him a copy of Mary Poppins and he had to admit that he was intrigued by the whimsical nature of the book, even though he hid the book behind a copy of War and Peace.

He sat curled up in his window seat, propped up against the sashing. A finished letter lay at his feet. Maybe tomorrow morning he would sneak downstairs and look for a stamp. He didn't want to have to ask Billy for a stamp. That would require revisiting the conversation from earlier which he wasn't keen to do at all.

From where he sat, he could see Billy working on his car. He squinted. The American seemed to be putting some kind of wax on the car, although for what purpose, he wasn't sure. He liked cars very much and yet knew so little about their upkeep. _Maybe next time we're in town, I'll get a book,_ he thought. Idly, he contemplated Billy's form, rehashing their breakfast conversation in his mind.

He knew that Billy had stopped Scatty from rebuking him a couple of times and also was aware of the fact that he had probably deserved whatever the Shadow had wanted to say. He tried to analyze the situation in his mind. It was all so confusing. There were times when he could think with his normal rationality and there were other times when he felt tugged in several directions, at the whim of his emotions. He closed his eyes and leaned back against the window. The coolness of the glass helped relax him, if only slightly. He resolved that he was going to try harder to behave for the rest of the day.

He thumbed through his book, but his eyes kept drifting down to where the American was working. He sighed. This week wasn't turning out to be a good one.


	59. Chapter 59

Machiavelli woke up the next morning feeling so lousy that he forgot all of his good intentions and came down to breakfast in a surly mood instead.

Billy noticed the Italian's mood right away. "What's up?" he asked the boy.

"I'm bored," he whined, setting his head down on the table. "There's nothing to do here."

Perenelle rapped her knuckles on the table next to him. "Come on, there's no need for that. Find something to do. Why don't you go swimming?"

"I went swimming yesterday," the Italian whined. "And before you suggest it, I don't want to read a book or watch TV or…" he trailed off and walked out the back door, grumbling to himself. Perenelle frowned after the Italian, but Billy and Nicholas looked after him with some form of amazement showing on their face.

"It could just be the hormones or it could be the summer coming to the end," Nicholas commented, shutting his mouth at last.

"Yeah, I think that-"But what Billy thought was never expressed because at that moment, the American immortal stood up very suddenly and headed for the door. "Mac! What are you doing? Get down from there at once." he snapped, striding towards the guest house where the Italian was sitting on the roof.

Machiavelli shifted to the edge of the roof as if to climb down, but stopped as a wicked thought crossed his mind. "No, I don't think I will," he shot back down.

"What is he doing?" Scatty asked, exiting the guest house and coming to stand beside the American immortal. This only served to make Machiavelli somehow angrier, which was strange, because the Italian knew deep down that he was acting very irrationally. Still, he only grew angrier when Billy shrugged back.

Billy clenched and unclenched his fists. Wisps of deep red smoke uncurled into the air. "Get off of there at once," he snarled.

Machiavelli got a sick sense of pleasure from the anger he was causing in the American immortal. He leaned forward slightly. "You can't make me do anything," he called down. A few loose singles slipped off and scattered on the ground by the two immortals. Scatty knocked one out of the air with her hand. She stood with her feet firmly planted and her hands on her hips, looking up at the Italian.

"Get down here, Mac," Billy said angrily. His voice was deadly low. "Get down here now, or I'll come up there and get you." He started towards the shed and followed the Italian's footholds up. He got about halfway up before the Italian scrambled down.

Scatty grabbed his shoulder in a vice-like grip. "What's up with you? I've never seen you like this."

Billy dropped down beside them. He gripped Machiavelli's shoulders with both hands and Scatty let go. His clear blue eyes searched the Italian's flint gray ones. "What is up, Mac?" he asked, making a serious effort to bring his temper under control.

Machiavelli struggled to escape his grip but Billy was beginning to make Scatty look like a pushover. The American immortal just dug his nails in to the boy's shoulders and waited. Finally, the Italian stopped struggling and sagged visibly. "I don't know," he huffed finally.

Billy released him from his grip. The boy instantly stepped away from him, taking two whole steps back, until he hit the wall of the guest house. A funny expression came across the American's face briefly, but he made no move to come closer to the Italian. "Listen, Mac," we're all adults here. I know it's hard for you sometimes, going through all this, but I just don't want you to get hurt." He waited.

"I know," Machiavelli begrudgingly answered.

Billy exhaled again and pressed two fingers to his temple. "Please, please, promise me you'll stay close to the ground." He held up his hands in surrender. "If you do, I'll leave you alone."

Machiavelli didn't say anything, just straightened his clothing and marched off.

"Where'd our sweet little boy go?" Scatty asked, squeezing Billy's hand slightly in a rare display of affection.

"I don't know," Billy said helplessly. "But I hope this one goes away sooner than later." He watched as Machiavelli kicked around the edge of the forest. "I really miss Mac being grown up now."

Scatty tugged on Billy's sleeve. "Come on," she urged. "You can keep an eye on him from the cabin. But watching him is only going to make him angrier." She started for the cabin and looked back at the outlaw. Billy hadn't moved. "He'll come around."

"I hope so," Billy whispered. He turned on his heel and followed her back.

"Are you sure you don't want to come with us?" Scatty asked Billy as she and Perenelle got ready to go out. "Nicholas is staying here, he can watch the kid."

"I'm the Kid," Billy said absently. He smiled up at her. "Besides, I want to keep an eye on him. I'm afraid he's going to do something stupid."

Scatty looked at where Machiavelli was sulking beneath a tree in the front yard. The Pup was chomping on grass, not far away from the teenager. "I think you need time away from him. He's so moody all the time and you're getting the brunt of it."

"Ah, well, I wasn't a very good teenager myself," Billy said softly, following her outside. He handed Perenelle the keys. "I was very angry all the time, too."

"Yeah, but you had a reason," Scatty said carefully. "I mean, your mother had just…"

"Died, yes," Billy answered her, filling in the awkward silence. "I know it's not the same thing, anyways, but I do love him very much. I can put up with it for a little bit longer."

Scatty popped open the passenger side door. She looked back at Billy thoughtfully and turned back to briefly touch his face. "You're a good guy, Billy. He's lucky to have you."

~MB~

From where he sat, Machiavelli could see the two young immortals talking, but couldn't hear what they were saying. There was an angry buzzing in his ears which only escalated as he watched the two converse in low tones.

"Come on, Pup," he said decisively, getting to his feet. The husky bounded up, happy to engage with his young owner. Machiavelli headed towards the back of the cabin, away from Billy and Scatty, away from the queasy feeling he got in the pit of his stomach when he watched Scatty touch the outlaw's face. He kicked angrily at the leaves beneath his feet.

Billy the Pup gave a high yip and whined at the Italian. "Sorry," Machiavelli mumbled, stopping to pet the dog. He dropped down into a kneeling position after ascertaining that he was out of sight of the cabin. "I just don't understand," he told the dog.

Pup cocked his head and looked at Machiavelli. The dog stuck out a paw and tapped his hand. Absently, Machiavelli shook his paw, then stroked the dog's muzzle. "I'm not supposed to be in love with him. He's a man. And so am I. It's not right!" The teenager stood up again and wheeled around.


	60. Chapter 60

AN: So Machiavelli's been having a rough week. I think I'll give him a break in this one, if only a small break… Hope everyone's still enjoying this. Let me know your comments and suggestions!

"Come on, Niccolò, let's take off together," Billy said, coming into the Italian's bedroom when the sun was just barely over the horizon.

"Where are we going?" Machiavelli slurred, rolling onto his back.

"I don't know," Billy said, sitting on the edge of the bed. He patted Machiavelli's side and then rubbed his stomach. "But you and I haven't had any time alone in a while. I think it would do us some good."

The Italian groaned and covered his eyes. His fingers traced over Billy's delicate hands and with a start, he realized what he was doing. Just as suddenly, he dropped his hand away. "I don't know…"

"Come on, Mr. Machiavelli," Billy urged, leaning over the Italian. "Please?"

Machiavelli felt a fluttery feeling growing in his stomach. Against his better judgment, he agreed. "Okay."

"Great!" Billy exclaimed, smiling wide at the teen. With a pang, the Italian realized that he hadn't seen the American smile in a couple of days. He followed Billy over to the closet, watching the outlaw pull a pair of jeans out. "Are these too short on you now?" the outlaw asked thoughtfully, holding them up against Machiavelli.

"I think so," Machiavelli murmured, trying not to respond to how close Billy was to him. He pushed the American's hands away slightly and swallowed thickly. "I think a lot of my clothes are getting too small," he said, moving past Billy to look into the closet himself. "How cold is it out?"

"It's a bit brisk out there," Billy called over his shoulder. The American flopped on the twin bed, curling into the blankets. "What's wrong? Nothing warmer in there?"

"I think this is my best option," Machiavelli said, holding up a pair of shorts.

Billy pushed himself up on his elbows. "I think those will still be too small for you, Niccolò. Here," he swung his legs off of the bed again, "I've got some pants in my closet that are too small for me. They'll probably fit you."

Machiavelli continued to search his closet for clothes. He found a long sleeve shirt, mostly red, with a gray stripe through the middle and tossed it on his bed. He quickly stripped off his night shirt and scrambled into the other shirt, feeling the early morning chill. "Can we get me some more clothes today?" he asked the outlaw as soon as the other man came back in.

"Course," Billy said, handing him a worn pair of jeans. He held up an older pair of boots. "I brought these along too, cause I don't think your sneakers are going to fit for much longer." He patted Machiavelli on the shoulders, staring into the Italian's gray eyes for a second longer than was normal. "You're getting big again, Mac. You're growing up fast."

"I think that now my body is about 13 years old," Machiavelli said, ducking his head. He tugged on the jeans. The denim felt soft and pooled slightly at his ankles, obviously still a bit too long. He had to roll the legs up several times before he felt comfortable to walk in them. "We don't celebrate my birthdays as much now as we did last month," he said carefully. He looked at Billy through his fringe.

"It's not personal, I promise," Billy said, heading for downstairs. The Italian scurried behind him, thumping down the stairs. The American immortal grabbed his coat. "It's just that it was much more obvious when you were 'younger,'" he traced the word in the air with his fingers. "You were changing a lot quicker. Now you just get grumpier."

"I'm not grumpy right now," Machiavelli was quick to defend himself. He pulled Billy's boots on. They fit surprisingly well considering how the jeans had fit, but then he supposed that his feet were significantly larger than Billy's were when they were both adults.

Billy pulled him to his feet. "No, darling, you're pretty amiable at this hour. Otherwise, I think you would have kneed me in the groin just now for calling you that."

"I'm not that bad," Machiavelli mumbled. He climbed in next to Billy and looked at the American with a pleading expression on his face, silently begging the other immortal to agree with him.

"No, you're not," Billy said, wrapping an arm around him. He pulled the teenager close and kissed his temple with a soft tenderness that belied his rough exterior. "Right now, you're just perfect."

The Kid turned the car on with a twist of his wrist. The engine came alive with a dull roar. Billy drummed his hands on the wheel and grinned at the boy on his right. "Come on, kid, we'll stop and get you some more clothes since you're outgrowing everything so quickly."

"Can I get a suit?" Machiavelli asked hopefully.

"Ahem, no."

Machiavelli beamed at the American. "What are we going to do after we go shopping?"

"What do you want to do?" Billy asked, briefly taking his eyes off the road to look at the tactician. He focused on the road again as they approached a curve in the road.

"Can we stop at the bookstore?" Machiavelli wondered, recalling his previous intentions.

"Sure," Billy agreed easily. They lapsed into relative silence for a while. The American went up a ways on the highway to a smaller town. He waited outside the changing room while Machiavelli tried on various articles of clothing. The sleepy eyed clerk stared at them slightly as they worked their way through a small mountain of clothing.

"Are we going to get some clothes for me to grow into?" Machiavelli asked finally, tucking in his shirt as he came out with the last pair of pants. He shook his head and placed the pants in the basket to be shelved.

Billy shook his head. He gathered up the various articles of clothing which had stood up to Machiavelli's critical eye. "You're growing so fast there's no point in trying to be proactive. What with the weather turning so quickly and such… there's no point really." He smiled at the cashier. She didn't smile back, but handed him his receipt with a frown.

"She was really grumpy," Machiavelli said as soon as they got out of the store.

"You're one to talk these days," Billy laughed. He dumped the bags of clothing in the trunk of the car and thus missed the hurt look on the Italian's face. By the time the outlaw looked up again, Machiavelli had schooled his face into a carefully neutral expression.

Billy whistled loudly and ambled over, jumping back up onto the curb with a happy skip. "Come on, kid, there must be a bookstore around here somewhere."

"You don't know?" the Italian asked disbelievingly. Billy glanced back at him and he forced his mask back on. "I mean, how are we going to find it?"

"All little towns have some sort of bookstore," Billy explained. He rested a hand on the Italian's shoulder and guided him down the road. "I've been all over America and that always hold true. It's just a matter of finding it. Why?" he asked suddenly stopping. "Are you tired?"

Machiavelli shook his head. "Just wondering."

"See, here we go," Billy said happily moments later. He pulled the Italian immortal behind him until they were both standing in front of a brick mill building. Bright colored banners came off of the sides, depicting well known novels. "It's even better than I thought it might be."

Machiavelli followed the outlaw into the bookstore. The shop was crowded, with tables of books overflowing. He felt that if he wasn't careful he might send the entire shop tumbling to the ground. Carefully he edged between narrow bookshelves and tables, following the American to the back of the store. "Are you going to get some books?"

Billy turned at the end of the aisle and looked in both directions. He flashed a grin at the teenager. "Of course. I want to get a book on auto mechanics."

"So do I."

Billy quirked an eyebrow at that. "Going to follow in your old man's footsteps, huh?" He ribbed gently. A passing woman glanced at him. "Well, alright then. We'll find some car books. But I also have a list of books for people your age." After looking around, he mimed quotation marks in the air. "Why don't you start looking at the car books? I'll look for the books on my list."

"Okay," Machiavelli said, kneeling in the auto aisle. He pulled a heavy tome off the shelf. Billy walked off towards the children's and teens' section.

Soon, the Italian was surrounded by several stacks of books. He was totally immersed in a book specifically on Thunderbirds when the outlaw came back. Billy dropped down beside him, setting a stack of books to his right. "Find anything good?" Billy asked, turning the book in the Italian's hands so that he could see the cover. "I have that book," he said without waiting for a reply.

"I like it," Machiavelli said shyly. "I also thought this one was good," he added, rummaging through a pile of books. He came up with a slim volume. Billy leafed through it and nodded. He moved the volume to his pile of books. "Help me put these books away, Billy?"

"Sure," Billy agreed easily. He began shoving books back onto the shelf. "Are there any other books you want to look for?" he asked, glancing at the spine of one of the books. Machiavelli shook his head. "Okay," he said, climbing to his feet. "Let me just stop by the poetry section and then we can head out."

"Do you like poetry?" Machiavelli asked in surprise.

"I like Langston Hughes," Billy answered carelessly, scooping up his stack of books. "And Robert Frost too, come to think of it." He helped pull the tactician up. "Are you sure there's nothing you want from the children's section?"

"I wouldn't know what to look for," Machiavelli answered honestly.

Billy waved his hand. "I didn't either, so I looked up books for your age group. The ones I grabbed looked good. And then I got some classics, like the Hobbit. Everyone should read that at least once." He pulled a book from the shelf and slipped it on the top of his stack.

"We look like crazy book people," the Italian observed. He laughed slightly. "Billy, I'm glad you brought me on this trip."

"I'm glad you came, Mac- Niccolò," Billy corrected himself quickly. He paid for their books and drew the Italian to his side.

Machiavelli glanced up at the American. "What are we going to do now?" His stomach rumbled and he flushed. "Can we get something to eat?"

Billy nodded. He strode down the sidewalk, heading towards the deli. Machiavelli had to jog to keep up. "Let's get some sandwiches," Billy said, entering the shop. "Then we can have a picnic. I know a place."

"You always know a place," Machiavelli said half admiringly, half disbelievingly. But he followed the American immortal into the shop anyways.


	61. Chapter 61

The two immortals ordered a couple of sandwiches from the shop. Billy insisted on ordering double what Machiavelli felt was necessary, citing his insatiable appetite. Machiavelli tried to get a soda, but the American sent him back with strict orders to get something healthier. This had only made the boy scowl to himself, but still the Italian was determined to prove that he wasn't grumpy all the time. He grabbed two apple juices instead.

In next to no time at all, they were off again, coasting through wooded areas and heading in an opposite direction from where they had come. For a while, Machiavelli had attempted to keep track of where they were going, but had eventually given it up as useless. Billy alone seemed to know where they were going. He turned into side roads and unmarked pathways seemingly without much thought.

Just as the Italian was about to ask him if they were ever going to stop, Billy turned the car off the road and slowed to a stop by an old railway. From the looks of the trestles, the railway had long been in disuse. Machiavelli was curious about the tracks which lead to a bridge over a narrow river, but Billy parked further down the way, under a tree. He pulled back the emergency brake and cut the engine. "Ready to eat, Niccolò?"

Machiavelli frowned at the use of his first name. He hadn't realized, the other day when he had his tantrum, how much he was going to dislike Billy calling him anything other than Mac. He decided to ignore the issue rather than address it. "Where are we?" the Italian asked looking around. He stood up in the car seat, looking around them. In front of them, an old railroad bridge stretched across the river. Behind them the road wound away from them. "How do you find these places?"

"I've had plenty of time to explore," Billy commented. He reached down to pop the hood of the trunk. "So have you. Don't you ever travel?"

Machiavelli stared out at the bridge. "Not really," he admitted, opening the door at last and exiting the car.

"Ah, well, we'll have to change that," Billy said, grabbing their bag of food. He paused with his hand on the trunk door. "Want anything else from the trunk?"

Machiavelli came around the back of the car. "A book. Can you read to me?" He didn't dare look at the American, fighting his own embarrassment, and instead stared at his boots. The tips of the boots were curling up a little. Idly, he wondered how old these boots really were as he moved closer to the trunk.

"Want me to read the auto mechanics book?" Billy asked cheekily, holding up the little book.

But Machiavelli had found the stack of books Billy had picked out. He thumbed through them. There was the Hughes poetry book, the Hobbit Billy had already mentioned, and then there was Sherlock Holmes, Howl's Moving Castle, and Tales of King Arthur. He paused on a book called Silent to the Bone, but it didn't sound very happy, so he put it back down. "This one," he said, holding up Howl's Moving Castle.

"Alright," Billy said, taking the book. "And you want me to read to you?" The Italian nodded. "Okay," the American murmured. He stuck the book in his armpit and grabbed a blanket from the back of the car. He jaunted over to the river side and spread the blanket on the ground with messy kicks. Billy flopped down on the ground with the easy grace that Machiavelli so loved and envied. "Come on, kid."

Machiavelli knelt next to him with much more care given to his movements. "Aren't you going to eat first?" he asked, watching the American thumb through the book.

"Nah," Billy replied. "I can eat in a little bit. I'll read for a couple of chapters. Then maybe you can read. We'll take turns." He glanced over at the Italian and flashed a grin. "Then we can both eat, see?"

"Alright," the Italian immortal said hesitantly. He unwrapped his sandwich and bit into it. A feeling of great pleasure spread over him as Billy began to read.

"In the land of Ingary, where such things as seven-league boots and cloaks of invisibility still exist…"

~MB~

Machiavelli wasn't nearly as good at reading aloud as he thought he would be. Through most of his section, he stumbled over words and lost his spot. This embarrassed and annoyed him greatly, which caused him a great sense of suffering. This, in turn, only worsened his condition. Billy seemed unperturbed by it all, eating his BLT with a certain amount of gusto.

By the end of the chapter, the Italian was more than happy to hand the book back to him. "Sorry," he muttered, passing it over to the American.

Billy just raised a hand dismissively. "It's not a problem. You're just out of practice is all."

_Maybe_, Machiavelli thought idly, but Billy had a certain charm to his reading. The American was inexplicably good at reading in different voices and capturing the cadences of the language before him. There was an almost musical quality to the outlaw's voice as he read which made the teenager lean in slightly. He felt as if he was standing next to Sophie in the hat shop, watching the Witch of Waste enter, and so, he was slightly confused when Billy reminded him to eat his sandwich.

Once he started eating though, he found that he enjoyed his sandwich. He took one swig of the apple juice and put it back in the bag though, not caring much for it. This, he found slightly strange as he normally enjoyed the occasional apple. He chalked it up as another one of the strange side effects he had from being a teenager again.

After quite a few chapters, Billy put down the book. "Why are you stopping?" Machiavelli asked. The teenager was stretched out on the blanket. He turned his head to watch the outlaw as he got up.

"Ah, kid, we have to head back now. It's past four o'clock," Billy told him, showing him his watch.

"Do we have to?" Machiavelli whined.

"Why, kid, do you want to stay out here forever?" Billy chuckled, pulling the Italian into a sitting position. _Yes_, Machiavelli thought to himself. Billy continued, "We're farther away from the cabin than you think. And I have to pick something up for Scatty before we go back."

Machiavelli felt the familiar stabbing of jealousy in his stomach. "I guess so," he muttered unhappily. "But couldn't we read another chapter."

Billy squeezed his knee gently. "I'll read you a couple of chapters before you go to bed tonight, I promise. But we still have to get back to the cabin in time for dinner. It's not fair to make them wait for us." The outlaw straightened up again. "Come on kid. We don't have to do it all today."

The teenager gave up protesting and climbed to his feet without another word on the topic. As they gathered their possessions up, he slipped into an uneasy silence which persisted through the long car ride home. Billy tried to keep the conversation flowing, but it wasn't easy as Machiavelli slipped into one of his darker moods. In the end, the American immortal gave up conversation and let the boy stare out his window at the landscape in silence.

Machiavelli had almost forgotten about Billy and the thing he was getting for Scatty by the time they got back to town, which had been surprisingly farther away than he had realized. It was only when Billy pulled off by the general store that Machiavelli remembered it at all. His mood had been lightening in the past hour, now it returned in full force to its moody state.

Billy, for his part, didn't bother asking him if he wanted to go in the store or not. "Don't blow anything up, okay?" was all he had said, before disappearing in the store.

Machiavelli waved him off. The American came back a couple of minutes later with something in a large brown parcel. This, he carefully placed in the trunk of the car. They pulled out again, Billy smoothly backing his long car out of its spot and into the traffic.

Machiavelli rushed before Billy when they got back to the cabin. He set off at a quick clip towards the front door, not bothering to see if the American immortal needed help any of their bags. He entered quietly, taking in Nicholas and Scatty sitting side by side on the couch. He could hear Perenelle in the kitchen. The Italian had hoped to get by them without being seen, but had no such luck.

"Hey kid, want to tell us about your day?" Scatty called from the couch.

"Not particularly," Machiavelli mumbled back, casting a dark look at the Shadow. He went straight up the stairs

"Does he seem particularly hostile to me today?" Scatty whispered to the Flamels. The Frenchman gave her a sympathetic look and shrugged slightly, his wife just patted her shoulder.

Billy thumped in through the door. He gave the pair on the couch a wane grin. "I got that thing you asked for, Miss Scathach." He handed her the paper bag from the general store. "I also got a six pack of beer and a couple of bottles of wine for the Flamels for the party."

Scatty looked into the bag. "Thanks. I think he'll like this." She set the package aside, pushing it carefully out of sight under the coffee table. "Did you guys have a good day? The kid didn't really say anything about it."

"Yeah," Billy sighed. "It was good until the very end and then he got in one of his moods. Honestly, I didn't see it coming at all. But besides that, we had a good time, I think." He ruffled the back of his hair with his hand, uneasily pulling at the back strap of one of his boots with the other hand.

"The two of you will have to tell us about over dinner," Perenelle said, joining the conversation at last. She came in from the kitchen. "It's all ready now, by the way."

"I'll get him," Billy assured her. He scrambled to his feet and leaned against the stair banisters. "Dinner's ready now, Mac!" the American immortal called up the stairs.

Machiavelli peeped out of his door. "I'm not really that hungry, thanks." He closed it again. Billy looked rather surprised, but let it go, knowing by now not to push the teenager.

~MB~

Billy knocked at the Italian's bedroom door an hour later. The outlaw was rather surprised to be let in without much protest. He set one of the extra sandwiches down on the Italian's bedside table and looked at the Italian, who was laying on his back on the bed, not doing much of anything. "Is something wrong?" Billy asked carefully, leaning against the wall by Machiavelli's window. He looked out at the world as it began to darken.

"I hate being a kid," Machiavelli whispered tiredly. "Nobody respects you when you're a kid. They all think you're crazy."

"Nobody thinks you're crazy," Billy soothed. "It's just that sometimes you're a bit difficult to live with right now. And that makes things a bit tense around the cabin. But we all need to try a little harder. After all, we all want the same thing."

"Power?"

"Nah," the American sighed. He sat down on the edge of the Italian's bed. "As a very wise man once said- and I paraphrase- there is no difference between adults and children. We are only individual egos, crazy for love."

The teenager blinked at Billy. "Exactly how much of my stuff have you read?"

Billy shrugged. "Quite a bit. I like to know what I'm up against, so I read up on you before we went to Alcatraz and since then I've filled in a few of the cracks." He pulled the blankets up on the Italian. "You wrote quite a bit in your lifetime. Don't you write anymore?"

"Can't publish anything now," Machiavelli said simply. "Everyone thinks I'm dead."

"Come on, Mac- er, Niccolò," Billy replied. "There's millions of ways to get around that now. If you want to write, you should." That being said, the American immortal pulled the book from earlier out of his boot. "Want me to read to you more?"

The Italian nodded. "Isn't this a movie too?" he asked, snuggling down further into the blankets.

"I think so," Billy said absentmindedly. He thumbed through the book until he found the dog-eared page where they had left off earlier in the day. "We can watch it after we finish the book if you can behave in the next couple of days."

Machiavelli flinched just slightly. He felt a twist in his stomach entirely different from what he had felt just earlier that morning. "Never mind, Billy, I don't think I want to read any more right now."

Billy looked up startled. "You sure? Why?"

"I just don't want to," Machiavelli lied. He turned over in his bed so that his back was to the American.

"Hey," Billy said, reaching out to the Italian. His fingers brushed against Machiavelli's shoulder, but the Italian curled into himself, farther away from the outlaw. "I didn't mean that, kid. Let's read."

"I said I didn't want to!" Machiavelli said sharply. "Leave me alone," he begged.

"Alright," Billy said, getting up. "Things will be better tomorrow."

But Machiavelli, listening to the pounding of his heart, didn't believe him. His day, so full of happiness and brightness, had shriveled up in the past ten minutes. If this wonderful day had turned into something so bad, he had no hope for the next couple of days. Once he was sure his bedroom door had clicked shut, he turned over on his back and cried a little.

Outside, in the hallway, Billy leaned against the Italian's door. His enhanced hearing allowed him to hear the Italian crying, regardless of how soft the noise was. His hand tightened on the doorway, wanting to go in and comfort his littlest companion, but reason won out. Instead, he slid down and sat outside his bedroom until he heard the Italian's breathing even out and deepen. _Tomorrow will have to be better_, the outlaw reflected.


	62. Chapter 62

With a groan, Machiavelli came slowly awake the next morning. He coughed slightly, feeling as though he had a bad head cold. He stretched out his right arm, hearing the joint crack with a soft pop.

A mewing came from his left and he started slightly before realizing that it was just Georgette who had someone made her way into his room during the night. He turned on his side and absentmindedly pet her. The tabby made a rusty purring noise and nosed at his hand expectantly.

The Italian immortal continued to pet her absentmindedly, but his thoughts were drifting back to the dream he had just had. He shuddered, thinking of it. Already, it was slipping away from him, something he was in fact, very grateful for. He had been in his childhood home among his parents and siblings, but they hadn't recognized him at all. It disturbed him especially that his mother had not recognized him, despite his numerous attempts to persuade her that he was her son. He shuddered again. "Mami," he whispered to himself.

Just as he was considering getting out of bed, he heard footsteps in the hallway. Deciding that he wasn't ready to face anyone yet, he closed his eyes and willed himself to breathe normally. The door clicked open softly.

"Niccolò," a soft voice breathed. _It had to be Perenelle_, he said to himself. "Are you awake?" the voice asked again. It was definitely the Frenchwoman. Her fingertips brushed over his shoulder.

Machiavelli made the mistake of cracking his eyes open. The light from his window instantly blinded him and he groaned and rolled over. "Is it morning?" he asked softly.

Perenelle sat gracefully on the edge of the bed. "Not for much longer," she gently chided. "It's nearly eleven o'clock, Niccolò." She waited, but Machiavelli just hummed slightly and closed his eyes again.

There was another knock on the door. "Perenelle? Is he up?" It was Nicholas this time.

"In a manner of speaking," his wife replied. She tapped the teenager on the shoulder. "Are you going to get up?"

"No," Machiavelli said rather decisively. "I think I'm going to sleep a while longer." And he turned back over on his side.

"Alright." Perenelle got to her feet. The Italian immortal felt the bed spring back a little bit. "Well, if you're sure…" She waited and Machiavelli nodded again. She sighed. "Come down when you want to be fed."

"Okay," the Italian said. He spoke so quietly, he couldn't be sure the Flamels had heard him. Behind him, the two French immortals exchanged a glance.

He sighed and closed his eyes, drifting off again into an uneasy sleep.

Billy came in two hours later. "Mr. Machiavelli?" he called. He smiled wistfully at the boy as the Italian blinked at him. "It's time to eat."

"I'm not hungry."

"Are you feeling sick?"

"No," came the tactician's muffled reply. "I'm just not hungry." He sighed again.

The outlaw sighed too. "What happened, Mac? We were getting along great yesterday." Billy nervously moved the toy figures around on Machiavelli's headboard, lining the knights up so that they were facing a dragon. "Did I say something wrong?" He glanced down at the Italian.

"No," Machiavelli said, getting out of bed. "Nothing's wrong. I'm just tired today." He gathered together some clothing. And looked at the American immortal. "I'll come down in a minute. I just am going to get dressed now."

"Alright," Billy agreed, taking the hint. He padded towards the door, Georgette trailing him. "I'll get your food ready."

Machiavelli nodded, so Billy continued downstairs. Wheeling around a couple of times, the American strode into the kitchen and continued to put a plate together for the boy. He glanced over at Nicholas. "Mac's coming down."

Nicholas looked up from his book. "That's good."

Billy set the plate of food down. Quietly, after checking the stairs, he leaned in close to the Frenchman. "I'm worried about him. His mood changes so rapidly. Yesterday, he was happy, I think."

Nicholas glanced quickly at the stairs as well. "Maybe it's just hormones?" he asked quietly.

Billy tapped himself emphatically on the chest. "I had hormones. And I wasn't this bad." He looked up, one quick glance at the stairs. "I think I'm going to bring him to the doctor tomorrow."

Thumping on the stairs indicated the end of their conversation. "Not a bad idea," Nicholas said quickly. "I'm going to look into it too on my end. Hello, Niccolò," he greeted the boy.

"Hello, Nicholas." Machiavelli pushed his food around his plate. "What are you up to?"

The Alchemyst shut his book and flipped it around to show Machiavelli. "I'm reading one of my favorites. Gulag Archipelago by Solzhenitsyn."

The Italian immortal picked up the book. "I never read this one. I read Cancer Ward though."

"Another good one." Nicholas smiled. He took the book back from the teenager. "I was reading that about a month ago, if you remember. But this isn't the time to read. You and I should both eat."

"Okay," Machiavelli agreed reluctantly.

~MB~

Machiavelli spent much of the afternoon moping around in relative silence. Billy read to him from his book, but couldn't be sure that the Italian was paying attention. Finally, he put the book down.

"Want to color?" Billy asked suddenly.

"What?" Machiavelli asked incredulously. He glanced up from the wooden puzzle he had been working in his hands. The key was to put the pieces back together, but right now he just had a jumbled mess in his hands. Billy just shrugged and pulled a stack of scrap paper from one of the cabinet drawers. "I don't know how to draw," the Italian complained. "It'll look bad."

Billy pushed the paper closer to the Italian. He selected a dark red pencil for himself. "Just draw something, Mac. It doesn't have to be perfect." The American immortal hummed under his breath. Machiavelli recognized it as Silver Threads among the Gold. Billy began to sketch out his car.

Machiavelli just sat there. Finally, unwillingly, he picked up a flesh colored pencil and began to draw. He drew an oval then began to change its shape, rounding out the bottom. He frowned and set the pencil down, locating a deep blue instead. He tried sketching out eyes, but there was something wrong with the picture, it wasn't right and he crumpled up the paper and tossed it in the direction of the trash can. It landed shy of the can. "I'll get that later," he told Billy grumpily.

Billy handed him another piece of paper. "What were you trying to draw?" the American asked curiously.

Machiavelli stiffened. "My son," he allowed unhappily. "It doesn't look like him at all though. And I don't have any pictures of him." He started with Guido's eyes this time. He made them round and big, thinking back to the first time he had looked in the baby's eyes. Guido had been the child to save his marriage to Marietta. And now every time he tried to capture the baby, his image slipped through his fingers.

"Tell me about him. Which son are you drawing? Guido?" Billy guessed correctly. He pushed away the picture of his car which was surprisingly detailed and took a different piece of paper. "Sometimes when you try to focus on something, it slips away," he muttered softly. Machiavelli blinked. He hadn't thought that Billy would understand.

"Guido was fair haired when he was first born, but then all my kids were blond when they were little." Machiavelli gazed off in the distance. "Piero stayed blonde even when he got older, but Bernardo and Ludovico, they were dark haired like me."

"Why do you always focus on Guido?" Billy asked, beginning to sketch.

Machiavelli shrugged, looking uncomfortable. "I guess I just feel guilty because he was so little when I left. I died," he traced quotation marks around the words, "And I never knew anything about him really. I couldn't exactly talk to him after I died."

"We have a very interesting relationship," Billy said thoughtfully. "Especially because of the age thing right now. I'm essentially a child without my parents and you're a father without your children."

The Italian immortal's throat burned. He coughed slightly. "Guido had big, blue eyes and ears that stuck out from his face. He liked to me to hold him. I would sing him lullabies…" Machiavelli's voice caught and he faltered.

Billy glanced sidelong at him for a moment and grabbed his hand. He gave it a quick squeeze then continued to sketch. A silence filled the cabin, but the Italian didn't find this one as uncomfortable as he had before.


	63. Chapter 63

Billy shook his head, watching the Italian. He turned to his companions. "Yesterday, I couldn't get him out of bed. Today he's up at the ass crack of dawn."

"Is everything alright?" Scatty asked carefully, looking at the outlaw. "You just seem… a bit grumpy today."

Billy waved a hand carelessly. "Sorry," he apologized. "We just had a bit of a disagreement this morning. We'll work through it." He leaned his head out the back door and called for the Italian, summoning him to breakfast. The two women were about to pursue the conversation further, but Billy ducked into fridge, searching for something and adamantly refusing to make eye contact with any of them.

"Are you sure that I'm going to like this place?" Nicholas asked the two women, redirecting the conversation away from Machiavelli who seemed to be causing Billy some great amount of grief at the moment.

"Where are you going?" Billy asked, looking over the fridge's door. He pulled the carton of milk out and sat back down at the table.

"We're going to the bookshop you told us about," Scatty answered for the Frenchman. "Perenelle and I decided that Nicholas needs a little more stimulation in his life. So we're going to have him apply for a job there." She jerked her head at Nicholas.

The Frenchman looked at Billy. "They didn't give me much choice in the matter," he said very quietly. Billy grinned, but his smile slid off his face when Machiavelli sat at the end of the table farthest from him and pulled the cereal box closer to him.

"What are you doing today?" Perenelle asked Billy. She looked briefly over at Machiavelli who was slumped over a plate heaped with food and then back at the American.

"I'm bringing Mac in for a doctor's appointment today," Billy said rather quietly.

Machiavelli straightened up immediately. "Excuse me, you're bringing me where?"

Billy's face hardened slightly. "Doctor's office. I was worried about you all of yesterday. And you're going to be a teenager for the next month and a half. I want to get you inoculated."

"I'm not going," the Italian teenager stated flatly. He stuck his chin out defiantly. The outlaw and the tactician stared at each other from opposite ends of the table, twin frowns etched upon their faces.

Nicholas stood up quickly. "I'm all done. I'm going to get ready to go. Are you coming?" he asked the women. Perenelle followed her husband's lead and tactfully got up from the table. Scatty paused a moment before reluctantly pushing away from her bowl of fruit.

Billy waited for the others to vacate the room before he spoke again. He took several deep breaths, presumably to contain his frustration. "You're going, Mac. I'm not entertaining any arguments on the matter. There's a lot that could go wrong with you while your body's like this and I'm not going to take any chances."

"What could possibly go wrong with my body?" Machiavelli shot back at him, glaring with obvious hostility.

Billy threw up his hands in exasperation. "I don't know, Mac. But you go through really quick, really weird changes and I want to make sure everything's working alright in there. And it wouldn't hurt you at all to get some shots. We're heading into fall." He pushed back his chair and took his dishes to the sink.

Machiavelli pounded the table with his fist. "I'm still an adult, Bil-ly." He winced as his voice cracked.

Billy very tactfully ignored the change in octave. "I know you are, Mac," he said, "and I'm not trying to embarrass you, but I think you should get some shots from the doctor. They have vaccinations now. Why not use them?"

Machiavelli lowered his voice. "I lived in a world where a toothache could kill you and survived. I think I'll be fine here."

"You're not acting reasonable," Billy said loudly. The American's temper was starting to build. "My mother died because there were no vaccinations to save her. You're the one who always said 'immortal, not invulnerable'!"

Machiavelli was fully aware that he was acting unreasonably, but felt pushed into a corner and decided to fight back. "It's all well and good to get some vaccinations," he shot back, "but it's not going to end there, is it? Next you'll want a full examination."

"I already told you that there was going to be one," Billy told him, clearing the table. "This isn't negotiable, Mac. I've made the appointment and we're going to be leaving in ten minutes, so get yourself ready." Machiavelli seethed silently at the table. "Honestly, Mac, it's not going to be that bad."

"Don't call me Mac! You're not getting the exam done. And I don't want some strange guy poking around at my genitals," Machiavelli hissed back.

"It's not some strange guy," Billy hissed himself, mimicking the Italian. "It's a doctor and unless you've got rainbow colored genitalia, there's nothing there that he hasn't seen before." He gesticulated wildly. "I'm trying to give you some leeway. Eventually you're going to start having sex again and I want you to be as safe as possible when you do. And as long as you're living in my house, under my roof..." The American turned away suddenly, dropping his head into his hands. "My god, I've become my mother."

"Even if I was a child- which I'm not- you're not my father and you can't tell me what I have to do," the Italian said firmly. He gestured wildly. "I'm not having sex with anyone. Even if I wanted to, I couldn't knowing that I had five hundred years on them."

"I know, I know," Billy moaned, keeping his head in his hands. He shook his head from side to side. "I wish you were a little boy again."

Machiavelli wasn't willing to give in. "There's a way around all of this trouble. Don't make me go," he said spiritedly.

The outlaw pulled on his boots. "Get in the car, Niccolò," he said very tiredly. "If I have to tell you again, I'm going to give you a spanking." The outlaw waited on the porch as the Italian came over slowly.

"Billy, please don't make me go," Machiavelli whimpered. "It's embarrassing. All of this is embarrassing."

"It's not going to be as bad as you're making it out to be, Mac," Billy replied, handing him a jacket. "Millions of children go through these checkups every day. Their parents do it to them cause they love them." He pulled open the door, pushed Georgette back with his foot, and exited the cabin. Machiavelli glumly followed him.

~MB~

"Here, Niccolò," Billy said, handing him a cup. "The nurse wants you to fill this."

"With what?" Machiavelli hissed, taking the cup. Billy gave him an 'oh come on' look and jerked his head in the direction of the bathroom. The Italian huffed and trudged over to the bathroom where he paused to give Billy one more dark look. Billy was wholly unaffected by the whole display, going back to filling out the intake forms.

Several minutes later, Machiavelli came back with the cup. He gave it to Billy who passed it through to the receptionist. The Italian refused to make eye contact with either individual and sat down on the other side of the room, hiding his face behind a National Geographic magazine. There was an article on Nero, but Machiavelli couldn't focus on it. "And you think this isn't embarrassing," he whispered to the outlaw when he came to sit down as well.

"Alright, peeing in a cup isn't glorious," Billy said, opening his book. "But there are worse things in life that you could have to do."

"Yeah, like what's coming up," Machiavelli said moodily. Billy didn't comment, just opened his book. He could just make out the title of the book- The Love Charm of Bombs. _Weird title_, he thought to himself. If he wasn't so irked by the American, he would have asked him more about what he was reading. Instead, he looked around the waiting room.

A toddler was pushing a big dump truck around the room. Machiavelli watched the boy carefully keep the vehicle running parallel to the lines on the carpet. A quick glance around the room and he had figured out which woman was the boy's mother. Though she was talking to another woman, she apparently was keeping close track of the toddler because she was quick to respond when the boy pushed his truck into a little girl and they both fell over.

"You used to do that," Billy commented. "I can't tell you how many times you ran into me with that car of yours."

"He's cute," the Italian acknowledged. He was half tempted to apologize to Billy, but asked him a different question instead. "Did I- I mean, was I cute when I was younger? I don't remember it now for some reason."

Billy glanced up. "Oh, you were very cute when you were a toddler. I guess you don't remember cause you were so little then." He threw an arm around the teenager's shoulders. "You don't play with your car anymore," he added, sounding a little sad.

"I'm too big now."

"I know. Soon you'll be wanting to play with real cars," Billy said, going back to his book. He looked up again though. "You used to dance on my toes too," he added and Machiavelli scoffed. Billy shook his head, but he was smiling. "I knew I was going to love you forever. I just didn't see you turning into this teenager."

Machiavelli opened his mouth, but was cut off. The receptionist called over to them. "Mr. Bonney, we're ready for Niccolò now."

"Your pediatrician's name is Dr. Carver," Billy told him, pushing him to his feet. "Not much of a bedside manner, from what I've heard, but a decent guy."

"You're not coming in?" Machiavelli asked in surprise. He looked back at Billy.

Billy shook his head. "Give you some privacy, kid. I'll be right here if you need me." He waved the Italian away, which Machiavelli did with great reluctance.

"Hello, Niccolò," Dr. Carver said briskly. "You can step right this way. We'll be done your examination in next to no time."

Machiavelli glanced back at Billy. Mad as he had been at Billy for scheduling this appointment, now that it was time for him to step down the hallway, he wanted the outlaw with him. "Can B- my father come with me?" he implored.

"Of course," the doctor agreed easily. Already the man was scanning the intake forms. "It's probably best as there seems to be some blanks that need to be filled in. Go grab him."

Machiavelli scurried back to where Billy sat. The American didn't say anything, just cocked his head slightly and waited. "Could you- could you come with me?" he asked, turning pink.

Billy stuck his book into his armpit and stood up. "Sure," he agreed, grabbing his jacket. The American immortal ambled behind the teenager as they were led into a small room. Billy sat in a vinyl chair in the corner and propped his book on his knee, but kept a certain amount of his attention on the doctor.

Machiavelli didn't recognize the cartoon characters on the walls, but they seemed to be everywhere. He looked around and hesitated in the center of the room, not sure if he should sit on the examination table or stand still. Dr. Carver solved this conundrum for him by directing him over to a set of scales by the wall. Here, the doctor recorded his height and weight. After that, the doctor allowed him to sit on the exam table. The paper crinkled under him as the Italian sat down.

"Well, my boy, you're taller and lighter than most," the doctor said, making some notes on the teenager's file. "At ninety pounds, you could actually stand to gain some more weight." Machiavelli wasn't sure if he was supposed to comment on this, but a moment later, the doctor stuck a tongue depressor in his mouth and told him. "Say 'aw'."

"He's always been tall and skinny," Billy commented from the corner.

"And does he have a good appetite?"

"Usually, but these past few days, I think he's had a cold perhaps. He hasn't eaten much," Billy said uneasily. "But Niccolò knows himself, he can tell you."

Machiavelli felt a wave of gratitude pass over him. He had been wondering if the two men were going to ignore him through the entire investigation.

After checking his throat, the doctor continued through a slew of activities. He felt the Italian's throat (for what, Machiavelli couldn't imagine), listened to his breathing, checked his reflexes (a useless test, the Italian thought), and checked the curvature of his spine. The teenager began to wonder if the doctor was getting paid per test when the man checked his pulse, blood pressure, and cholesterol levels and completely tuned out when they began taking a detailed history of his eating, sleeping, and exercise habits.

"Are you afraid of shots?" Dr. Carver finally asked, setting down his pen at last. He peered at the Italian over his spectacles expectantly. Machiavelli shook his head. "Good," the doctor said, turning around to prepare some syringes.

"Why is that good?" Machiavelli mouthed to Billy. The American shrugged.

"Okay, Niccolò, since you have so many holes in your record, I'm afraid we're just going to have to catch you up on all your vaccinations." The doctor drew different clear liquids into several syringes, setting them on the little table next to where Machiavelli sat.

"Are there many?" Machiavelli asked nervously.

"A fair few," Dr. Carver said. "I'll be giving you one for mumps, measles, rubella, diphtheria, polio, and then HPV if your father sees fit to do so."

"Why do I get a choice on the last one?" Billy asked anxiously.

"HPV was originally only given to girls, but a lot of doctors suggest now that it be given to both boys and girls. Helps to prevent sexual diseases." The doctor shrugged. "I don't force boys to take it."

"Well, you can give it to him, just to be safe," Billy said decisively.

"Alright." The doctor began to inject the vaccines. He pinched the skin on the Italian's arm slightly and slid the needle in. Machiavelli had to admit that despite the man's lack of a bedside manner, he was good at giving shots. He hardly felt anything for the first five shots. Dr. Carver cleared his throat, before holding up the last syringe. "The last one goes in your behind, I'm afraid."

Machiavelli looked up in horror.

Dr. Carver kept going. He seemed entirely immune to any of Machiavelli's moods. "You might as well do away with your trousers anyways. I'll be giving you your testicular exam right after this."

Billy stood up rather quickly. "He's a bit of a private person. Do you want me to step out, Nicky?"

Machiavelli struggled with that one. While he found this whole experience rather humiliating, he found, to his surprise, that he didn't want the American to leave him. It wasn't that he thought Dr. Carver was going to do anything wrong so much as… well, he couldn't explain it. Feeling like he was going to regret this, he shook his head.

Billy looked surprised, but sat back down.

Machiavelli winced at the cold feeling the gloves were giving him and stared at the ceiling. The ceiling was plastered smooth which gave him nothing to look at. He chanced a look over at Billy. The American immortal gave him a slight smile and unfurled his fingers at him. He waved back and rolled his eyes.

Finally, the doctor told him he could get dressed again. Machiavelli hoped this meant the exam was done and started to hop down from the table, but the doctor stopped him with a 'not so fast'. The Italian immortal was subjected to another ten very bad minutes of conversation surrounding puberty, wet dreams, and erections, all of which the Italian denied going through. He had a feeling both men knew he was lying, but they let him off the hook.

When he was finally cleared to go, Billy hung back for a moment to talk to the pediatrician. Machiavelli had already done up his jacket by the time, Billy came out. "Well, was it as awful as you thought it would be?" the American asked him.

"It was pretty bad," Machiavelli said.

Billy laughed. "I know, kid. Come on, I'll bring you out to lunch." He opened the Italian's door for him.

~MB~

Billy leaned against the frame of the Italian's bedroom door that night but made no attempt to come into the room. "I'm just coming to say goodnight," he said when Machiavelli looked up. The Italian nodded, avoiding the American's eyes. He struggled to create a false facade, but something must have shown in his face. Billy asked carefully, "Is there something wrong, Mac?"

"Nothing's wrong," he snapped. "And don't call me that. You know I hate it." He regretted what he said instantly, but was too stubborn to apologize.

Billy's eyes flashed dark blue, but the American brushed it off. "Alright, I'll keep that in mind. Sorry." He flicked the light switch down. "Goodnight." He left, pulling the door shut behind him.


	64. Chapter 64

"You're going to get it," Nicholas encouraged the American immortal. The two men sat on the back picnic table, with a pile of pebbles between them. Next to the French immortal was a growing pile of precious stones.

Billy was frowning with concentration. His hand was stretched out over a single pebble, set amidst a complicated web of drawings. It glowed red as his aura lit up and the stone briefly lit up, before falling back on the table, completely unchanged. Billy picked up the pebble unhappily. "Not doing a very good job right now, am I?"

Nicholas took away the pebble and tossed it in the pile before them. "Alchemy is complex," he soothed. "I have no doubt that you will eventually pick it up."

"Maybe," Billy said glumly. They sat in silence for a moment before Billy seemed to make a decision. He straightened his shoulders and shook his head a bit. "So, tell me about your trip yesterday," he said, his voice injected with false enthusiasm. "Are you going to work there from now on?"

The Frenchman thought about it for a moment. He turned a pebble over in his hand, and with the sudden scent of mint, transformed it into an emerald. Billy gave a small moan of frustration and Nicholas looked up. "I might," the older immortal said cautiously. He leaned closer to Billy and the American immortal leaned in himself. "Actually, the owner and I got to talking. I told him how I've owned my own bookshops in the past. And he asked me if I'd consider buying the store."

Billy's forehead creased. "That's a bit more of a commitment than the ladies were going for."

"Exactly," Nicholas agreed, nodding slightly. He tugged on his ear lobe. "But still, I do miss my old bookshop," he said mournfully.

Billy grinned. "You're going to do it, aren't you? Good for you."

"Oh, Billy, I couldn't do it without discussing it with Perenelle first."

Billy nodded, but smiled nonetheless. He picked up another pebble and set it in the middle of the circle again. With an enthusiastic wave of his hand, the pebble glowed and settled back down, not significantly different but still glittering slightly.

Nicholas smiled. "See, that went better. Try again."

"What are you doing?"

Both men jumped slightly. The sudden question had startled both men, who were deeply engrossed in their alchemy. Nicholas moved over slightly to make room for Scatty, whose eyes were glittering with curiosity. "Alchemy?" she asked, picking up one of Nicholas's emeralds.

"Nicholas promised me he'd teach me some," Billy said happily. "Mac's going to teach me some things too, or at least he promised he would before all this happened." He paused. "Where's my guy, anyways?"

"He's playing a game of chess with Perry," Scatty said quietly. She looked around. "He seems a bit bummed out today," she said in an even quieter voice.

Billy accidentally burned a hole in the table. Nicholas hastily fixed it for him. "What do you think's up?" the American immortal asked, sounding very forlorn. He pushed the stones away from him.

The Shadow shrugged. "He's not exactly confiding in me at this moment. Who knows what I've done to upset him." She smiled humorlessly, showing her pointed canines. "Maybe he still resents me for the door incident."

Billy didn't laugh, just stared off in the distance.

She glanced over at Nicholas, who gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. "Billy, I think you just need to let these things play out. Machiavelli's going to make it through just fine."

Billy nodded, but didn't say anything. He looked down at the table and frowned slightly so that lines appeared between his eyes. "Didn't I burn the table?"

"I fixed it," Nicholas said. He glanced around at the ground, snagged a stick, and snapped it in half. Just as easily, he fixed it again.

"Can you show me how to do that?" Billy asked, tilting his head in curiosity.

~MB~

"Are you sad?" Billy asked Machiavelli quietly from the corner of his mouth. Lunch had just ended. Much of the conversation had centered on whether or not Nicholas and Perenelle should get the book shop, which left the American immortal plenty of time to contemplate his young charge. He thought the teenager seemed a bit pale, but it could have just been the low lighting. A storm appeared to be approaching their cabin, stretching out on the horizon.

Machiavelli looked a bit surprised. "No, not sad. Just thinking about some things."

"What things?" Billy prodded. But Machiavelli either didn't want to tell Billy or else couldn't. He just shook his head. "All right," Billy sighed. He caressed the back of teenager's head and let his head drop.

Perenelle had to switch on the lights in the living room as the evening progressed. What had been a few dark clouds hours earlier was now a full fledge rainstorm. The occupants of the cabin could hear rain plinking on the roof.

"Can we do something together?" Machiavelli asked suddenly.

"Sure," Perenelle allowed. "What?"

"Let's play a game," the Italian said, sounding suddenly happier. He scrambled over to the closet where the games were kept and dragged out a step stool. Billy kept a careful watch on him, flexing his hand a little when Machiavelli stretched high from his precarious position on the chair. "Found it!"

"Why Scrabble?" Billy asked distastefully, taking a tile holder nonetheless.

Machiavelli was busy flipping over the tiles in the lid of the box. "You don't like it?" he asked curiously, glancing up at the outlaw. A sly smile spread on his lips. "You can't spell, can you?"

"I got very little schooling," Billy grumbled, picking through the pieces.

"Are we limiting the game to English words only?" Scatty interrupted. She sat on Nicholas's left and looked to him for an answer. It was Perenelle who answered however, in the affirmative.

"It seems like the fairest thing to do since it's the language we all share," she said. "Although, we do all speak French in some form too..."

"Let's stick to English," Billy pleaded. "I don't even have a firm grasp on that language."

"Why don't you and the kid play together," Scatty suggested. "It's very unwieldy having five of us piled around the table. You two can take up one side of the table."

Billy looked up, his eyes shining bright blue. He looked over at the Italian hopefully. "You want to?"

The teenage immortal considered for a minute. On the one hand, he enjoyed the idea of being better than Billy after being treated as a child for the past couple of months. On the other hand, Billy looked so hopeful. "Sure," he said finally. "But you let me strategize."

"Of course," the American immortal agreed. He pulled his chair closer to the Italian's and leaned in over the boy's shoulder. "How about this word?" he moved the letters around on the stand.

"Do I have one of those?" Machiavelli asked archly.

"One, I think we have two of those," Billy laughed. "Okay, I'm done. Do your worst." He stood up.

"Leaving so soon?" Scatty asked. She covered her tiles with her hand.

"I'm just getting a glass of water," Billy told her. "Since I'm basically useless. Anybody else want something?" he asked, gesturing around the room at each of the immortals in turn. Most of the others shook their heads, so Billy shrugged.

Machiavelli felt slightly bad as he watched the outlaw head towards the back of the cabin. Billy obviously was not comfortable as an intellectual, which was really a shame since the young immortal had a proven knack for languages.

"It recommends we let our youngest player go first," Nicholas said, reading from the back of the boss. He smiled faintly.

"That's Billy," Machiavelli said without thinking.

"No, kid, that's you," Scatty said with a grin.

"Either way, it points to your team," Perenelle said, effectively cutting the conversation short before it could turn sour.

"Alright," Machiavelli agreed. He looked at his tiles for a minute and then carefully began to arrange them on the game board. He spelled out the word 'ensnare' and sat back. Perenelle totaled up his score and the game moved on.

"Hey," Billy said softly, sitting back down. He slung an arm around the Italian immortal, who unconsciously leaned in, soaking up Billy's affection. "How are we doing?"

"It always sucks being the first person to play in Scrabble," Machiavelli complained lightly.

"Ah well, we'll come back from it."


	65. Chapter 65

For the most part, the immortals lived in relative harmony over the next few days, although Billy, who was scrutinizing the Italian's behavior, noticed a definite drop in the boy's happiness. Machiavelli didn't argue unless he was antagonized, but his new behavior upset Billy more than if he had shouted or thrown a fit. It seemed like there was a cloud hanging over the Italian.

By Friday, Billy was truly concerned about Machiavelli's melancholia. The teenager was shutting himself in his room a lot, and avoiding the other immortals. With the resolution of making him feel better, Billy went up to the Italian's room that afternoon to try again. He rapped on the door with his knuckles.

"Enter." Billy had to smile a little. Sometimes, Machiavelli's usual crisp manner still carried through, even if shrouded by his teenage emotions.

He pushed the door open and leaned on the door jamb. "Hey, kid. We've got some plans for tonight."

"Oh, yeah?" Machiavelli asked wearily. The Italian immortal was sitting at his desk, bushing his model car back and forth absentmindedly. "What are you doing?"

"The plans are for all of us," Billy said, coming into the room and sitting on the edge of his bureau. "We're going to go watch a movie at the old theater, have dinner. It'll be fun."

"I don't know," Machiavelli said dully. He pushed the car a little harder than he meant to and it rolled off the edge of his desk with a loud thump. The plastic windshield popped off, to the Italian's horror.

Billy touched back down to the ground quickly and scooped up the car and it's broken off part. "It's alright, I can fix that," he said quite kindly to the obviously stricken Italian. He set the pieces aside on the bureau, but didn't climb up again. Instead, he swung his hands around nervously for a moment, tried fitting them in his pockets and then pulled them out nervously again. He cleared his throat.

"Is something wrong? You seem to be cycling through a lot of emotions these days. And you never want to go anywhere anymore."

Machiavelli turned in his seat so that he was facing the American immortal and immediately regretted it. He shrugged, not knowing what to say.

"Is there something wrong between you and Scatty?" Billy queried softly. He picked up one of the Italian's Nerf guns and opened the cartridge. Pulling the trigger, he made the barrel spin. Not looking up, he added, "She says you're not talking to her."

Machiavelli stooped to tie his laces as a pretext of hiding his face. He had long since lost the illusion that he could deceive the American. Now he was just afraid that something on his face would give away what was going on in his head.

As the summer got closer to its end, Machiavelli had felt compelled to face some of his fears of the future and with that, a lot of his unresolved emotions towards Billy. Lately, he had been forced to admit to himself that he and Billy were far too incompatible to stay together in the long run. As soon as he was of legal age to take care of himself again, Billy probably wouldn't want him around anymore. The thought caused an empty aching feeling inside of him that he strove to squash.

Realizing he hadn't answered Billy, he glanced up and then back down again. "I've just been getting a lot of weird emotions lately. I think it's all the hormones," he said, still addressing his laces.

Billy still looked concerned and, to the Italian's mind, disappointed with his answer. "But why are you avoiding Scatty?" he asked curiously.

Machiavelli turned a delicate shade of red_. Cause she's a better match to you than I am._ "I don't know," he stammered. "It's just that…" But what it was exactly was something he had decided never to vocalize.

Inexplicably, Billy grinned. "Why Mr. Machiavelli, are you in love with Scatty?" He laughed.

Machiavelli grimaced. This was definitely not a conversation he had wanted to have and even if it was, it was going horribly. "No," he said with some finality. "Why? Do you love her?" he asked, hoping it sounded like an afterthought.

"Sure," Billy said happily. The Italian felt a strange sort of internal spasm. "Scathach's great. She picked out which movie we're going to watch." He pulled out his wallet from his back pocket and produced five tickets. "It's called Spiral Staircase. I first saw it when it came out in 1946. It stars Ethel Barrymore, grand-aunt to Drew Barrymore. It's kind of weird to have seen an entire family…"

"Billy, I don't think I'm going to go," Machiavelli cut in.

Billy visibly deflated. "Why? Are you sick?"

Machiavelli wanted to lie and say yes, but knew that Billy would see through it. He internally groaned. Billy was making him an honest man. "No, I just want some time alone." The Italian immortal felt guilty, seeing how downcast he had just made the outlaw. "Maybe we could do something tomorrow?"

Billy sighed, but nodded. "You sure you don't want some company tonight?" Machiavelli nodded again. "Alright. But you've got my phone number. Call me if anything's wrong."

"Okay."

"I'm going to make you some dinner now. You can heat it up later when you're hungry." Billy passed his hand through Machiavelli's hair. "Your hair's getting long again."

~MB~

Machiavelli almost changed his mind about going right before the others left. Billy certainly tried to entice him to come, but ultimately he declined again. He had decided that it would be better to spend less time with Billy in order to make their last month together a less painful experience. So while he was tempted to go with them, he thought it best to start this new pattern of behavior early.

After the others had left, he wandered around the cabin. He flicked on the TV, but couldn't get into any of the programs that were currently playing. Idly, he remembered that Billy said nothing good was ever on the television on a Friday. He turned it off again and threw the remote on the coffee table. It bounced off and fell on the floor. He winced.

Nervously, he began to pace a bit. He walked into the kitchen and glanced in the fridge. Billy had made him a casserole and left the instructions on the counter, but somehow he couldn't bring himself to commit to putting it in the oven. He wasn't hungry now, but he also knew that with the time it took to cook, he'd probably be overly hungry by the time he had put it in. He teetered on the edge of decision.

Georgette mewed from her place on the table. "Hi!" he said, suddenly very glad to see the cat. "Are you hungry?" The tabby meowed again, bending forward a little but not breaking eye contact.

Machiavelli pulled out a can of wet food for her. The sound of the can opening caused the Pup to come running in from the living room. Georgette gave him a haughty look. Apparently, their friendship extended only so far. "I can feed you too," Machiavelli said to the dog. His voice sounded strange in the silence.

He sat with the animals as they ate. A curious loneliness filled him up.

~MB~

"Do you really think something's wrong?" Scatty asked as Billy fished out the keys to the front door. "Everything looks fine. The lights are on."

"Well, I just wanted to check. You could have stayed there and kept the car. I could have walked back," Billy said as he opened the front door and flicked the light switch. "What the hell…" he trailed off. The American stood frozen as he looked around the living room. Machiavelli was slumped in the couch, several bottles on the coffee table and one tipped over on the ground, leaking wine onto the carpet. Some wine had somehow also spilled on Machiavelli, spreading in a nasty stain on his shirt which looked almost like blood.

The other immortals stopped at the front door, but Billy came to his senses and strode across the room. He pulled the boy up into an upright position.

"Mac?" Billy slapped the Italian's cheeks rapidly. "Wake up, Mac."

Machiavelli blinked blearily and smiled up at the American immortal. "Oh, Billy," the Italian giggled. "You came back. I've missed you loads." He wrapped his arms around the outlaw's shoulders and hiccupped.

"He's drunk," Billy said disbelievingly. He looked up at the Flamels who were still framed in the doorway. Scatty had crossed the room herself and was picking up the bottles.

"One, two, three… seven?" Scatty counted the bottles on the table. "And this bottle makes eight." She looked at the Italian who was slumped against Billy. "He's going to have one hell of a hangover tomorrow."

"He drank every bottle we have. I can't believe this," Billy said. He lifted the Italian up which was not an easy task as the Italian was now nearly as tall as the American immortal. "I'm going to go clean him up. I'm sorry about this."

"It's okay," Nicholas said. He gestured around the room. "We'll clean up. Goodnight, Billy. Goodnight, Niccolò."

"Nighty night," Machiavelli laughed. He leaned back his head and made a gurgling noise in the back of his throat. The American sighed and readjusted his grip on the boy before going up the stairs. "Are you mad?" the Italian asked carelessly. He gave the American a sloppy kiss on the cheek and smiled up at him.

Billy sighed again and sat Machiavelli on the hamper in the bathroom. "I don't know, Mac. A little bit," he said shortly. He started the water going in the tub. "Get undressed, Mac," he said, not looking at the Italian. "You can leave your briefs on."

"You're mad at me again," Machiavelli said in a subdued voice.

Billy looked over at the Italian. He got off of his knees and helped Machiavelli out of his shirt. "I'm not mad. I just don't understand, Mac. This is extreme even for how you've been behaving." He pulled the boy up into a standing position. "Let's just get you out of these sticky clothes. I guess we'll just clean you up for the night. But tomorrow we're going to talk about this."

"Okay," Machiavelli agreed sleepily. He climbed into the tub and nearly fell. Billy caught him and helped him down. "I want to go to sleep, Billy. I'm very sad all the time."

"I'm sorry about that," Billy said softly. He set about to washing the Italian's face. "Really, I am. I just want this week to end."

"Me, too," Machiavelli whispered. He fell back against the side of the tub and waited for Billy to be done. His mood was rapidly dropping. He leaned against Billy after he was pulled from the tub, letting the American do all the work. "Billy, I feel sad," he mumbled.

"I'm sorry, Niccolò," Billy told him. He hoisted him up again. "We won't say anything about it right now. We'll talk tomorrow. Okay?" He laid the Italian on his side in the bed. Behind Machiavelli's back, he propped up some extra blankets and pillows.

"What's that for?" Machiavelli asked sleepily.

Billy pulled up his blanket before answering. "It's so you can't roll over, Mac. I don't want you rolling over in the middle of the night. You could throw up and end up choking on your own vomit."

"My head hurts, Billy."

"You had a lot to drink. I expect everything will hurt before tomorrow." Billy patted the Italian's side. "Okay, here's a trashcan for if you get sick. I'm going to go see the others off, but then I'll be in my room across the hall."

"Billy?"

The American turned around in the doorway. "Yeah, kid?"

Machiavelli closed his eyes. "Nothing." He heard the door click shut.

"Night," Machiavelli whispered softly. He lay back in bed, but didn't feel tired. He turned his head and stared up at the lines on the ceiling. The first night he had slept in the cabin, he'd thought they'd looked like fireworks, fuochi d'artificio, but now they looked like spider legs, or perhaps crab legs. He shuddered and shifted into an uncomfortable position, deliberately hunching his back so that he wouldn't fall asleep.

As the hours passed by, he was finally overcome by sleep. He woke into a familiar dream: they were on Alkatraz again, he was framed in the doorway of the Warden's house, and there was Billy, standing before the Karkinos. There was a pause where the gigantic crab raised one of its claws and then decisively drove it downward into the outlaw. Machiavelli shot up, groping in the darkness for his light switch. His head reeled with the sudden movement and the light only made it worse. He blinked in the sudden brightness and fought the urge to heave. After a few moments of deep breathing, he turned the light off again. But he didn't go back to sleep.


	66. Chapter 66

It was still fairly dark when Machiavelli decided that he wasn't going to get anymore sleep and that he might as well get up. His eyes itched with sleepiness but he didn't want to close his eyes again and risk facing the nightmares he'd been having. He shuddered seeing the Karkinos stab through Billy again in his mind. He sat up in bed; instantly his head felt like it had split in two. He clasped both hands to his head and pressed tightly, trying to shut out the pain. It didn't go away. Briefly he thought of going back to sleep, but dismissed the thought.

As he came more fully awake, he was aware of a dull pounding behind his ears. He felt strangely heavy. As his head reeled for the second time in a short while, he decided he'd better head for the bathroom.

Carefully, he swung his legs over the edge. He stumbled when his feet hit the ground and he had to grab the edge of his side table to keep from falling. He groaned and grabbed the bin Billy had left for him; there wasn't going to be time to get to the bathroom. He sat down rather heavily on the bed and clung to the bin like it was a lifeline.

The next few moments passed in a wave of sickness and dry heaving. The Italian alternated between cursing his weak stomach and promising the gods above that he would never drink again. The drunk revelry of last night had finally come crashing down around him, leaving him blindingly hung over. He slumped helplessly against his pillow again, hoping that the worst of it was over.

With his increasing sobriety came the realization that he had messed up badly last night. Already he could feel the squirming sensation of shame crawling into his stomach. While he was only vaguely aware of what he had said and done, he was completely aware that he didn't want to face the others in the morning.

The more that Machiavelli lay there in the semi-darkness, the sure he became that he couldn't face the others, especially Billy. He was sure that after all the other stunts he had pulled in the past couple of weeks the American wouldn't be willing to keep him around anymore. It seemed to him that he had blown his last chance.

As the first tendrils of light crept over the horizon, he decided that he would go away, that he needed to. He wasn't quite sure where he was going to go, but he felt that it was better than waiting for the American immortal to expel him. And, he reasoned, he was still an adult in his mind and should therefore be able to make the proper arrangements.

Being very careful now in the way that he was moving, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Georgette mewed from her place at the edge of the bed and for a moment, he groped in the darkness until he found her head. He gave her a few quick strokes between her ears and almost smiled when he heard her purring.

Standing up, he moved gingerly to his closet. The door creaked when he pushed it open and he frozen, listening hard. There was no sound. Holding his breathe slightly, he eased the door open the rest of the way.

He couldn't really see anything in the darkness. He caught hold of a shirt and pulled it off the hanger. Quickly, he scrambled into it. He also attempted to find a pair of pants, but after coming up twice with a pair of shorts, he just pulled on those instead. Thinking hard, he tried to remember where he had left his sneakers. His mind was still frustratingly fuzzy. The front door, he decided. He had taken them off there.

He gave a quick glance around his room. With quick light strides, he crossed the room to his bed, where he stuffed some extra blankets into the shape of a human form. Satisfied, he left the room.

Across the hall, the door to the American's immortal room was open. Briefly, Machiavelli considered going in to check on him but he discarded the idea just as quickly as it had come. Instead he turned to the left and padded down the stairs. The husky lifted his head when Machiavelli began to put on his shoes. He keened piteously. The Italian patted his head and whispered in his ear, "Shh, Billy. I have to get out of here, just for a little while. Come with me." The Pup whined uneasily but perked up when he saw Machiavelli grab his leash. The dog followed him to the front door.

Machiavelli stepped off of the porch and into the dewy grass. He could feel the moisture creep into his shoes and shivered slightly. Though the early morning air woke him up, it didn't take away the itchy feeling his throat that made him feel like he was going to start bawling at any moment.

Inwardly, he marveled at the depth of emotions he was feeling at the moment. He had lived alone for years, reveled in fact, in his solidarity. Never had he felt more alone than he did now.

Peering around the edge of the cabin, he hoped inwardly that Scatty wasn't awake. He had a feeling her eagle eyes would see him, even in this mostly darkness. He jogged over to the forest, disappearing among the forestry. Even that quick movement had jostled his already weak body.

He walked along for hours, lost in his thoughts. Billy the Pup swung around him, yipping at squirrels and snuffling through the ferns. Machiavelli drifted off of the beaten path and into the woods, not really noticing or caring where his feet took him. He felt tremendously guilty about the way he'd been acting the past week and now, as he moved further from the cabin, twinges of shame clutched at his heart.

Finally, when he couldn't go any further, the Italian was forced to conclude that this had been another bad idea that he'd had in a string of bad ideas. It seemed like his brain just wasn't working properly these past few days.

Looking around, he realized he didn't know from where exactly he had come. His heartrate sped up. He spun in a circle, looking for some familiar clue, but there was nothing. And worse, his head was beginning to really pound now. He felt like he was choking on his own heartbeat.

He swung around and looked back in the direction he thought he had come from. The change in orientation made him feel suddenly lightheaded. He tugged at the collar of his t-shirt experimentally, feeling as if the cotton was choking him. The Pup hovered close by him now, tugging his leash backwards, trying to lead the Italian in the direction they'd come from. Machiavelli pulled in the opposite direction.

When the sun was almost directly above them, Machiavelli slumped against a wide tree trunk. The world around him seemed rather hazy, he thought as he looked around the clearing. The Pup trotted up beside him and began to lick his face. "Stay with me, Billy," he whispered. "I'm feeling very low right now." The dog whined softly and settled down, resting his face in the Italian's lap. Machiavelli gently rubbed the dog's muzzle. He felt his face crumple and he leaned into the dog's fur to muffle his cries. He cried himself out and let himself fall asleep, curled up against the husky.


	67. Chapter 67

Back at the cabin, the other immortal were going frantic looking for the Italian.

~MB~

They hadn't noticed his absence initially. Billy had glanced into Machiavelli's bedroom in the mid-morning, but the room was dark and the bunched up pillows gave the resemblance of the Italian's still form. Though Billy had wanted to go in and check on the boy, he abstained, fearing that he would wake the boy from needed sleep. Resisting his instinct to go further into the room, he closed the door with a soft pop and padded downstairs.

Finding Nicholas alone at the kitchen table, he shuffled into the half lit room. "He's still asleep," he said quietly, by way of explanation. He ran his hand through his hair, making it messier still. "Want me to make some breakfast for you, Nick?"

Nicholas rustled his newspaper and closed it carefully. He cocked his head to the side and then shook his head. "I'll have a pastry," he decided. Billy got the box of them down from the top of the fridge and handed it to the Frenchman, who accepted it with thanks. "Are you going to talk to him about last night?"

Billy slipped into the chair beside the Alchemyst and bobbed his head wearily. "I'll have to. We can't have a repeat of the behavior. He could have died."

"I just wonder what caused Niccolò to act in that way yesterday," Nicholas posited carefully. "It's so out of character for him to act like this."

"I don't know." The outlaw dropped his head into his hands and shrugged. He looked truly miserable. "It was fun having him little when he was little. This isn't fun at all. I just want him to be the man that I first met."

Nicholas didn't know what to say. He rested a hand on the back of Billy's neck and squeezed gently. "Try not to feel too badly, Billy. He's getting bigger every day. It won't be long before he's back to being that man."

Billy nodded, but inwardly fretted. Much as he disliked this new teenaged Machiavelli, he didn't want to think about him being an adult again, when he was sure to leave him alone again. He pushed the thought away and clattered around the kitchen instead, getting a bowl of cereal, but eating none of it. He looked around. Georgette had followed him down when he had gotten out of bed. A thought crept into his head. "Where's the Pup? Did you let him outside?"

Nicholas opened his paper again. He shook his head. "I didn't, but the girls might have. Or maybe they took him with them."

"Where are our ladies?" Billy asked, taking a bite at last. The cereal tasted like cardboard and he pushed it away, disgusted.

"Farmer's market, I believe. They said they'd be back in an hour or so."

~MB~

"Here are the girls, Billy," Nicholas called to the American. The younger immortal had been wandering around the cabin restlessly. Billy was out the front door in a flash. He traipsed down to where the female immortals were unpacking the car.

Perenelle glanced up at him. "Hello, Billy! Come to help us unpack?"

"I can," Billy said distractedly. "You don't have the Pup?"

Scatty maneuvered around him with a big box of produce. "No, why you don't know where he is?"

Billy shook his head. He grabbed at the remaining bags in the trunk, and turned back towards the cabin. "I don't know where he is, I thought he was with you. He was in the cabin last night."

"Maybe he's in Niccolò's room," Perenelle suggested.

"No, he wasn't in there when I checked this morning and…" Billy trailed off. He dumped the bags by the front door and quickly disappeared upstairs.

"What's up?" Scatty asked the Frenchman. But Nicholas shrugged, looking confused himself. They all jumped when they heard a muffled shout and a curse.

Billy thumped down the stairs. "He's not up there!"

"The Pup?" Perenelle asked cautiously.

Billy shook his head quickly, looking a bit sick. "Mac! He's not in his room. The bed… the blankets are made up funny, but he's not there…" He went out on the porch and came back in again.

"Maybe he took the dog for a walk," Nicholas suggested feebly, but even he didn't sound like he believed himself. "We'll go look for him, Billy, we just have to be smart about this. What if we all went out looking for him and he came back to the empty cabin?"

Perenelle nodded. "Write a note for him in case he comes back. Then we'll go looking for him."

Billy exhaled sharply. He tore a page off of their scrap paper and wrote in fairly big letters: 'Mac, call me immediately. Do not leave again.'

"Good," the Frenchwoman said. "We should bundle up a bit. It's started to get cold out there."

"I'll be out here," Billy said immediately. "I'm all ready."

The other immortals momentarily split up. Perenelle appeared first, dressed in a woolen sweater and jeans. The day was unusually chilly and she drew her arms around her as she joined Billy where he was pacing on the porch. "Where could he be?" he asked. "I've tried to pick up on his aura. I can't find it."

"I'm sure he's not far," the Frenchwoman said calmly. She placed a comforting arm on his shoulder. "Scatty thinks we all should go look for him. Nicholas and I will help."

Billy took in a sharp breath, held it, and let it out again. He ruffled his hair, messing it all up. "Okay, okay. You're right. We'll find him." He twisted around in a full circle. "It just really bothers me that I can't sense his aura."

Scatty came out to join them, Nicholas trailing behind her. The Shadow's face was a mask of determination, the planes of her face sharpening. "Nicholas and I thought we'd break up in two groups." She pointed to the two paths leading into the woods. "One group will sweep the area around one path and the other group will go up the other one. If we don't find him in an hour's time, we'll send up red sparks and regroup."

"What if he's not gone into the woods?" Billy asked quickly. "What if he went down the road?"

"Billy, you're starting to sound hysterical," Perenelle said sharply. "Where can he go without a car or any money?" She continued before he could protest. "Nicholas will go with you. I'll go with Scatty." The two women promptly marched off, heading towards the trail farthest from the lake.

Nicholas followed Billy to the mouth of the other trail. The older man caught the American immortal's elbow. "I'm sure he's alright, Billy. Niccolò might be confused right now, but he still is an intelligent adult at his core." With that assurance, the Alchemist began to examine the woods around them, squinting in the gloom.

Billy strode up the incline, glancing desperately to the left and right. "But why's he behaving this way?" he tossed over his shoulder. He stopped, noticing for the first time that he had gone far past where Nicholas was.

Nicholas shrugged tiredly. The forest lighting cast dim shadows on his face. "He's just acting like a normal teenager. He had a rough day yesterday and he took off. We'll find him and bring him back."

"But he's not a normal teenager," Billy said. He helped pull the older immortal up the incline. As upset as he was, he slowed down to let the Frenchman regain his breath. Nicholas shrugged at Billy's statement. Truthfully, neither man understood completely what was going on in the Italian's mind. Billy cupped his hands to his mouth. "Mac! Where are you?"

"Niccolò! If you can hear us, come out! We're not mad," Nicholas called in the opposite direction.

"Speak for yourself," Billy mumbled, surveying the area around them. "When I find him, I'm going to wear his hide out."

"No, you won't," Nicholas said carefully. He glanced sidelong at Billy. "You love him more than that. Now, Niccolò might have the mind of an adult, but he has the body and emotions of a child. What were you like when you were his age?"

"I don't know," Billy said somewhat angrily. "My mother had just died when I was his age." He inhaled sharply. They walked in silence for a good thirty minutes. Billy starting speaking again suddenly. "I wandered away from my house when I was very little. A blizzard started up and cut me off from my house. The only reason I didn't die was because I found a barn to stay in."

"Niccolò isn't going to die, he's still an immortal."

"He could still get hurt or overexposed to the elements," Billy snapped at the older man. He took in another deep breath and exhaled. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to snap at you." He noticed the Frenchman check his watch. "What time is it?"

"Noon," Nicholas admitted reluctantly. He checked the digital face of his watch again, hoping that he had misread the dial. He hadn't.

Billy wheeled around. "We've been out here an hour?" he asked, his voice thin. He shoved a hand in his back pocket and looked out at the landscape around them. Nicholas watched him but didn't comment. The Frenchman opened his fist and let a green ball of energy float up into the air. When it was about twenty feet above the treetops, he snapped his fingers and the ball exploded in red sparks. "Maybe the girls will have found him," Billy said hopefully, watching the older man's actions.

Nicholas nodded and watched the tree line. "The girls' sign should come from over there. Billy's heart sank when answering red sparks showed up in the distance. Nicholas squeezed the outlaw's shoulder gently. "Well, we'll meet up with them and regroup. He's okay, remember, the dog's with him."

The American didn't say a word, just trudged beside him. The only time Billy broke the silence was when they came over a ridge and saw the girls. "Nothing?" he asked desperately.

"Au contrair," Perenelle said. "We haven't found Niccolò, but Scatty thinks that she's found a trail of sorts."

Billy's spirits soared. He looked at the Shadow. "You have? Where is it?" He caught her elbow.

Scatty jerked her head in the direction the two women had come from. "Granted, it's not a perfect trail, but we came upon some paw and shoe prints at one point and then a half masticated squirrel a little while later." She shrugged. "I'm going to continue to track it. Do you want to go with me?"

Billy nodded. He began to follow Scathach, but paused to look back at the Alchemyst and his wife. "I'm sorry for being short with you before. It wasn't right." Nicholas waved him off, so the American turned and followed Scatty deeper into the woods. The two young immortals walked in relative silence for nearly an hour. Scatty would occasionally point out the tell-tale signs of the path: a broken twig, the occasional footprint, and once, a pile of dog scat. Billy was unusually silent throughout the whole journey. He only spoke once to ask Scatty why she thought Machiavelli would run away.

"I'm not sure that he ran away so much as took off for a little bit, Billy. He's only been gone a couple of hours." Scatty bumped shoulders with the outlaw. "He's had a tough week. I'm sure he's just upset."

"That's what Nick said," Billy mumbled. They came out on a clearing. "Pup!" Billy shouted suddenly. Scatty jumped, but ran after him. The American had never been so glad to see the dog before, especially when they came in full view of the husky and saw the Italian lying beside him. Billy skidded to a stop aside the odd pairing and fell to his knees. "Mac?"

"Is he alright?" Scatty asked, peering down at the Italian's still form. Billy grabbed the boy's arm and quickly found a pulse. He sighed in relief; the Italian's still form having caused him great anxiety. Scathach mirrored his sigh. She stepped slightly away from the group and sent up green sparks.

Billy lightly stroked the boy's face. Machiavelli mumbled, but didn't wake. Billy pressed an ear to the Italian's chest. "He's asleep." He examined the boy critically. Machiavelli's olive skin had kept him from getting truly burned by the sun, but he was still fairly red in the face. "I think he's dehydrated though. Probably from lying in the sun too much." He gathered the Italian up in his arms. "Come on, let's bring him back to the cabin."


	68. Chapter 68

"Sorry, Mac," Billy whispered miserably. With the Italian's growing stature, Billy was finding it hard to maneuver the teenager's body, which meant that just now when they were coming into the cabin, Billy had accidentally smacked Machiavelli's leg against the door frame. It made a dull cracking noise that caused Billy to wince. The fact that Machiavelli was still unconscious was not only troubling, but made his body so much more dead weight for the outlaw to carry.

Once they were within the cool interior of the cabin, Billy lay him down on the couch. "Should we bring him to the hospital?" he called to the others, concern evident in his voice. Touching the cold skin of the Italian's arm, he quickly pulled the blanket from the back of the couch and ensconced him in it. He rubbed his arms and legs, trying to get some warmth back into them.

The immortals held a quick conference over the Italian's still form. Finally, it was decided that Machiavelli was probably suffering from some form of dehydration and that they would try to treat it before they brought him to a hospital. Billy's first instinct was to get Machiavelli to a doctor, but the others were quick to point out the flaws in that plan and the potential for them being outed.

Billy reluctantly agreed to their plan, but refused to be severed from the teenager. Thus it fell on Perenelle as the only other immortal with driving skills to get some medicine for him. Nicholas went with her, presumably to help, though Billy didn't seem to notice their presence or lack thereof either way.

An awful silence filled the cabin once the Flamels were gone. Billy clearly didn't know what to do with himself and Scatty wanted to stay out of his way. Getting out Billy's laptop, she settled in the armchair besides the couch, close but not hovering. "I'm going to look up his symptoms," she said, just to break the silence.

"Okay," Billy said distractedly. He pulled a pair of sweatpants out of the laundry and changed Machiavelli into them. The long sleeve shirt he left on him. "Why won't he wake up?" he asked.

"I'm sure he'll be okay, Billy," Scatty said quietly. "The website says that dehydrated people need to rest to recover. Try giving him some water." She scrolled down a minute before continuing. "It says a person needs to drink at least 2 quarts of some sort of liquid within 2 to 4 hours. We might as well start."

"Start? He's unconscious," Billy said incredulously.

"Pull him up into a sitting position. He'll swallow small amounts even if he is asleep," Scatty suggested. "Just don't give him a lot, otherwise he'll probably start throwing up."

Billy pulled him up so that he was essentially sitting up. Again, Machiavelli's size in comparison to his own caused him some grief. He finally managed a comfortable position by resting the Italian against him and wrapping his arms around him to keep him from tilting. He lightly tapped the boy's face with his thumb, but couldn't completely wake him up. Still, Scatty was right, Machiavelli did swallow some water, though he also managed to spill quite a bit onto the boy in the process.

"I hope he's alright."

~MB~

Machiavelli slowly came awake. He could tell he wasn't in his bed but wasn't quite sure where he was until he cracked his eyes open slightly and saw the beams of the living room ceiling. Something had woken him up, but what was it?

Billy's voice was nearby, in the kitchen perhaps. That had to have been it. The Italian unconsciously turned his head towards the American's voice, but squeezed his eyes shut again. _Billy's voice sounds angry_, he thought to himself. The Italian struggled to hear what the American was saying. "...why would he..." Another voice intruded, softer, feminine. Machiavelli couldn't make out the words and his mind felt too sluggish to make sense of it.

A sudden coolness startled the Italian and he opened his eyes. A myriad of colors came rushing across his vision, disorienting him. He blinked rapidly and feeling sick, closed his eyes again. He tried again to open his eyes, slower this time.

Perenelle Flamel was sitting on the coffee table. She held up a damp washcloth apologetically. "You have a fever. We were reducing it." He nodded dumbly.

Perenelle's voice had called attention to the fact that Machiavelli was awake now. Heavy footfalls on the floor alerted them to Billy's presence. He came in from the kitchen, Nicholas trailing behind him. "You're awake then," Billy said, his voice brittle and sharp.

Machiavelli flinched and made a small squeak of acknowledgement. He pulled the blankets closer to him as a makeshift defense.

"Hello, Niccolò," Nicholas said, trying to diffuse some of the tension in the room. "How are you feeling? Any better?"

Machiavelli started to nod, but the movement made him feel sick and he shifted to shaking his head, just slightly. He looked over at the American immortal, trying to apply his jumbled mind to decoding the man's face. "What's wrong with me?" he asked, speaking directly to Billy, willing him to not be mad, to be the same Billy that he had always known.

The outlaw reluctantly stepped closer to him. He held out a bottle of some unknown purple liquid. "We think you're dehydrated. Have some of this."

"What is it?" Machiavelli rasped. He took the bottle shakily, but didn't drink from it.

"It's called Pedialyte," Nicholas answered. "You give it to children when they've become dehydrated, usually from diarrhea or excessive vomiting, but this situation applies as well. I went to the store early afternoon today and got some. You've been sleeping quite a while."

"Have I?" Machiavelli asked, bewildered. His mind wasn't taking in all this information as it usually did, but instead leaked out like water from an oversaturated sponge. His eyes searched the outlaw's face, but Billy's face was carefully blank. The only indication of Billy's growing temper was a nerve jumping at his temple. "Billy? Are you very mad?"

"Yeah, a little bit. I've been looking for you all morning," Billy all but snarled. "How could you run away?"

Machiavelli blinked back tears. He felt heavy and sick. "I don't know. I'm sorry," he rasped quietly. He groped for Perenelle's hand and clasped it tightly.

"How could you not know? What's wrong with you?"

Machiavelli's voice quavered. "Billy I don't know what gets into me sometimes. Please look at me." But it seemed like the wrong to say, because it was the one thing that Billy couldn't do at that moment. He glanced over at the girls instead.

Facing Billy, Scatty stepped forward. "Billy, he's sweating a lot. Scold him later, but right now, he's really sick."

Billy gripped his hair, looking quite deranged. He swung in a wide circle, took a deep breath, and sat back down on the Italian's makeshift bed on the couch. Machiavelli actually edged away slightly, at which Billy actually winced. The two immortals seemed to have reached an impasse.

Machiavelli kept quiet, realizing that he was experiencing, for the first time, the American's legendary temper. At another place and time, he might have enjoyed exploring the American's temper- men often gave a way the most information about themselves when they were angry- but not now. Billy was different. He did not want to know the American's harder side.

The American was clearly struggling to tame his own temper. He kicked the coffee table. One of the legs broke off and it over balanced. "Niccolò, I was so worried about you. You can't ever do anything like this again. How could you do this?"

Machiavelli opened his mouth, but couldn't formulate words. "I... I don't know," he said very quietly. He felt like he was crying, but when he touched his face, it was surprisingly dry. The back of his throat burned.

There was an eerie silence in the cabin. Billy didn't seem to know what to do either. "Have something to drink, Niccolò," he said finally. "I think I need to go outside." Billy stood up. He reached down and briefly touched the boy's cheek, but pulled away at the last moment, as suddenly as if he'd been burned. The outlaw stepped backwards and away from him.

Nervously, he ran a hair through his hair. Machiavelli heard him sigh. "Listen, Niccolò. I need to clear my head. The girls- women- will take care of you." He turned away from Machiavelli and headed for the door. Scatty followed him out. "Are you going somewhere?" Scatty asked in disbelief.

"I just want to be by myself for a little bit," Billy muttered. He touched her shoulder lightly. "I don't want to say anything that will really hurt him and right now, I'm really afraid of what might come out."

"Billy, I think he needs you," the Shadow said quietly.

Billy just shook his head.

Back in the cabin, Machiavelli watched the two American immortals talking. "He hates me," the Italian said sadly.

"No," Perenelle disagreed. She tucked a pillow behind him. "He's just very upset right now. He'll come back when he's calmed down."

Scatty came in half way through the Frenchwoman's sentence. She nodded. "He only left so that he wouldn't say something to hurt your feelings, kid. Thing's will be fine."

Perenelle glanced at her watch. "Alright, mon grand, it's four o'clock now. Have some water. Nicholas has gone off with Billy. I'm sure my husband has the sense to be back by dinner. Until then, I want you to relax. Drink some water."

Machiavelli accepted the bottle she proffered, but didn't drink from it." The two women glanced at each other.

"Really, kid, things will turn out okay," Scatty assured him. She paused for a minute. "Why'd you go away anyways?"

The Italian felt light headed. "I couldn't sleep," he mumbled, pulling at the cap of his bottle. His fingers slipped uselessly over the ridges and he gave up, dropping the bottle on the couch beside him.

The two women watched him intently. As he spoke, Scathach opened the bottle for him. He blushed red when she held it for him to drink, but felt some of his confusion clear up along with his lightheadedness.

"I keep having these dreams," he admitted. He paused. _I don't want to talk about this_. "I keep seeing Billy get stabbed. And I thought about how awful I've been acting lately. I just didn't want him to be disappointed in me anymore." The two women stared at him. "That's all," he finished lamely.

Perenelle kissed him lightly on the forehead. "Drink some water, mon cher. Then get some rest." She stood up. "I'm going to put the turkey in the oven."

Scatty switched over to the couch so that she was sitting beside him. "Did you know, I was a nurse with Joan in World War II?" Machiavelli shook his head. "Well, I was," she said stubbornly. "Now, we don't want to bring you to the hospital cause they would ask a lot of questions that we can't reasonably answer, but… We're going to take care of you the best we can. Why don't you tell me how you're feeling?"

"I feel like I'm going to throw up," he said honestly. He went on quickly, "But I always get stomach pains when I'm upset, so it's probably nothing."

"What about thirst? Are you thirsty?" Scathach persisted. Machiavelli was, but shook his head. The thought of drinking anything else made his stomach roil. Scathach looked unconvinced. She placed another bottle on the table beside him. "Here, in case you do get thirsty."

She got up and looked out the front window. "Scatty?" Machiavelli asked.

"Mmm?"

"Do you think Billy will come back soon?"

Scatty turned around to look at him. She gave him a wan smile. "I do, kid. He's coming up the front path now."


	69. Chapter 69

"You weren't gone long," Scatty said, coming out to see Billy on the porch again.

Billy stopped beside her. He nodded to Nicholas behind him. "Ah, I couldn't stay away for long. I was too worried about him." He sighed.

"Are you going to be able to remain calm?" Scatty asked, getting right to the point. Billy nodded. "Good. Cause I want to tell you some more information that might make you a little less mad."

"I'm going to head in and see him," Nicholas said, pushing past them. He clasped Billy's shoulder gently as he went around the American immortal.

"What's up?" Billy said, leaning against the porch railing.

Scatty pushed up on her short haircut. She sat down on the porch swing. After a moment, Billy joined her. "He's having nightmares, you know."

"Yeah, I wondered about that." Billy pushed back on the swing and let it rock back and forth. "Did he tell you what they were about?"

"Well, he says that some of them are about that night that you were on the island." At this Scatty fixed him with a piercing stare. "I wasn't on the island that night. You were stabbed by a giant crab?"

"You knew that already," Billy shot back.

The Shadow shuddered a little. "Yeah, but I didn't really think about it until now. What it must have looked like… no wonder he's having nightmares. He likes you much more than I do."

"Well, thanks!" The American immortal sounded slightly scandalized.

"Oh, you know what I mean." Scatty punched him, not so lightly, on the shoulder. "Anyways, I don't think that's the only thing troubling him, that's just what he told us."

"I don't know how to get him to talk to me though," Billy groaned. He leaned forward and dropped his face in his hands, rubbing tiredly at his temples. "He's not exactly chatty these days, is he?" He sat in silence for a full minute. "I don't know what to say to him."

"Just promise you'll try," Scatty said, getting up. She pulled him off the swing. "I can't deal with emotional problems. When you storm off, and leave him upset, I have to try to fix things. You know I'm not good at that."

"Well, I'm sorry about leaving before," Billy said, "but I wish you'd give yourself some credit. You're a great friend." He followed her into the cabin.

"Hello, Niccolò," Billy said shyly, hanging back in the doorway. He ruffled a hand through his hair. "Have you been drinking your liquids?" he asked softly.

Machiavelli looked up, made brief eye contact, and looked down again. "Uh huh."

Billy lingered in the door. "Good," he said at last. "Well, have some more for me now, okay." The Italian nodded noncommittally, but sipped more of his Pedialyte.

The rest of the afternoon stretched on, Machiavelli trying to bury his anxious mind in puzzles and books to no avail. His concentration was shot. He longed to put his arms around Billy's neck and beg him forgiveness, but the more adult regions of his mind told him that Billy, despite his early reentrance, still needed time and space to sort things out.

Dinner was therefore a quiet affair. The Flamels and Scathach did most of the talking, leaving the other two immortals to eat in silence. Machiavelli pushed his food around his plate, careful not to look up. When he had eaten half of what was on his plate, he stopped. "Can I go now?" he asked Billy timidly. Billy sighed a little, but allowed it.

The rest of the night was spent in a similar fashion. The two female immortals continued to pump him full of liquids as the night went on. He made marked progress, much to the relief of the others who watched him carefully throughout the night. He could feel their gazes on him as he busied himself.

As the night went on, his sense of anxiety began to notch up again. It felt similar to the night before, the night he had gotten piss drunk, _was that really only last night?, _but different somehow. He almost threw himself at the American immortal at one point, but caught himself before he did it. Instead, when he was done his puzzle, Machiavelli climbed upstairs and settled into his bed. Billy looked up as he left, but neither of them said anything.

An hour later, Machiavelli heard Billy coming up the stairs. He turned over on his side and closed his eyes, feigning sleep.

Billy came into his room and watched him for a moment. The American pulled his blanket closer around him. Machiavelli expected him to leave after that, but instead he felt the springs dip down as the American sat down on the edge of the mattress. "Oh, Mac," the outlaw sighed. He kissed the Italian softly on his head. "You asleep?"

The Italian immortal momentarily thought about lying, but pushed it away. "No, I'm awake," he said softly. There was a long pause. "Are you still really mad at me?"

"Oh, about that," Billy said miserably. "I shouldn't have shouted at you like that. I was just frightened, do you understand that?" There was a pleading note in the American's voice that clearly made Machiavelli uncomfortable.

"I'm sorry, Billy," Machiavelli said. He sounded truly pitiful. "I really don't know what's gotten into me these days. I'm not doing this to be mean."

Billy pinched the bridge of his nose. "I know that, Niccolò. That's why I'm not going to punish you when you get better. But this time, we're going to seriously talk."

The Italian immortal nodded glumly. "Can I have some water?" he asked weakly. Billy nodded and pulled him into a semi-upright position. He held the glass of water to the Italian's lips. Machiavelli raised a hand after a moment and Billy pulled the glass away, but settled the Italian against his headboard so that he was still sitting up. Machiavelli couldn't relax, unsure if Billy was going to yell at him now for all that he had done or wait until later.

Billy seemed to sense his trepidation. The two of them remained intertwined in the silence, frozen, but unable to let go either. The teenager was horrified when Billy began to sniffle. His own father had cried in front of him before, sure, but there was something entirely different about Billy. He wasn't at all prepared to hear his young American friend cry.

It was like the neurons in his brain started firing again. All pretenses lost, he threw his arms around Billy's shoulders. The young man started in surprise. "No, don't cry, Billy," he begged, beginning to tear up again himself. He gripped the worn cotton of Billy's t-shirt in his hand, then laced his fingers through the outlaw's sandy hair.

He was surprised when Billy gave a shaky laugh. He pulled away slightly, tilted his head and looked quizzically at the other immortal. A single tear drop slid down his cheek. Billy guided him back onto the bed. "I came up here to try and comfort you. Not the other way around."

"Oh," Machiavelli said thickly. He took in several quick breaths, trying to calm down, but not succeeding.

"Scatty says you've been having some nightmares," Billy said quietly, not looking at him directly. Machiavelli nodded, but said nothing.

Billy waited a minute, but the Italian immortal didn't contribute anything more than that. Though he already knew, he asked the question anyways. "What are they about?" he prodded.

Machiavelli sucked in air like it was a lifeline. He felt like his heart was beating out of his chest. "Just about that night." He didn't really have to say more, so Billy was surprised when he did. "I keep seeing you die," he whimpered, really beginning to tear up now. "It feels so real every time."

"But it's not real," Billy broke in. "I'm right here. I'm always here." The American managed to pull himself together, but Machiavelli, already high strung from all the emotions of the day, wailed on. The two touched foreheads and Billy rocked him gently. "Hush," he whispered softly. He shushed the boy gently, kissing away the stray tears that fell from the Italian's gray eyes.

Machiavelli slowly calmed down. He hiccupped. "You called me Niccolò again," he said to break the ice.

"I've been calling you Niccolò."

"But you called me Mac just now," Machiavelli persisted.

"Oh, that. I thought you were asleep," Billy said softly. He guided the bottle of water to the boy's lips, forcing him to drink some more. "Anyways, I thought you wanted me to call you Niccolò."

"I thought I wanted that too. Now I think I like Mac more." Machiavelli wiped his face. He took a big risk. "Billy," he said, waiting until he was sure the American was listening. "I love you."

There was a pause and Machiavelli was sure that Billy wasn't going to say anything back. His spine itched. Then Billy breathed in his ear, "I love you too, Mac. I always will."

~MB~

Billy didn't sleep in his room that night, preferring instead to sleep on the floor next to Machiavelli's bed. He was planning on just using the sleeping bag, but had to go downstairs to get it out of the front closet. When the Shadow discovered Billy's intentions, she dragged the immortal's mattress into the room and set it on the floor for the American.

"Thank you, Scatty," the American immortal said softly. He caught her before she could slip away and embraced her. Scatty sighed like she was really being put out, but he could see hints of a smile on the corners of her face. He let her go. She paused in the doorway and fanned her fingers out at them both.

"Hey, kid," Billy said, his voice full of tenderness. "Finish the rest of the bottle for me. Okay?"

"Billy, I feel alright now," Machiavelli said hopefully. He really disliked the taste of the Pedialyte. Billy just shook his head at him, so he very reluctantly drank the rest of the purple liquid, making faces at the American immortal. Satisfied, Billy took the bottle away. He pulled the Italian down on the bed, arranging him carefully. He drifted off, feeling like he had rode the waves on the white water rapids again.

The next morning Machiavelli woke up with a pounding headache but no recollections of any nightmares. He found Billy perched on the side of his bed reading one of the books he had gotten for the teenager. Whatever it was, it had apparently caught the outlaw's attention.

"Hey," he said, catching the American's attention.

"Hey," Billy replied. He tossed the book on the foot of the bed and stretched out slightly, his back cracking into place. Machiavelli noticed that the American immortal had dark bags under his eyes, like he hadn't slept. "Happy birthday, kid."

"Thank you," Machiavelli whispered. He kneaded his forehead with his knuckles and blinked blearily. "I hope this week is better than the last one. I'm not enjoying being a teenager very much."

"I hate to admit it, but I'm not enjoying you being a teenager very much either," Billy said, but there was no malice in his voice. He held out a glass of water which the Italian accepted gratefully. Machiavelli took a couple of experimental sips and ended up sloshing water down his front. Billy took the glass away again and helped guide the glass to his mouth. "How were you at this age?" Billy asked cautiously.

Machiavelli shrugged. "I don't remember ever being this bad," he told the American miserably, "so I don't think it matters what I was like the first time around."

"Well, let's hope for the best."


	70. Chapter 70

Billy wouldn't let Machiavelli do much in the next few days, saying that he wouldn't risk the teenager's health again. Consequently, the Italian immortal found himself confined to the inside of the cabin. And Machiavelli didn't mind so much as long as there was someone home to keep him company.

The two immortals had reached some sort of silent agreement that for as long as Machiavelli wasn't completely well, they wouldn't discuss any of the trouble that had happened at the end of the week.

The adult immortals doted on Machiavelli and he couldn't deny to himself that he was enjoying the attention once more. It reminded him of how much he had enjoyed the beginning of the summer when he was much littler and the others had been freer with their affection. He recognized that part of this came from better behavior on his own part. It would appear that for now, the hormones that had been raging through his body had died down, leaving him with only his recent illness to deal with.

The Flamels were often gone during the day now. Having drawn up the agreement with the bookstore owner, the French couple often went over to help with the daily operations of the shop. This left the cabin much quieter.

Scatty, as it turned out, was not very good at staying inside for long periods of time. She attempted to stay with him for a while, but Machiavelli always released her to the outdoors in the end, feeling that he had been attempting to keep a wild animal in a cage.

This left him predominantly with Billy and he still wasn't exactly sure where he stood with the outlaw. At times, the American immortal was his old self, showering him with affection. But then at other times, Billy could get pensive and distracted.

"Billy?" Machiavelli asked rather timidly the day after they found him, as he still didn't feel like he was on completely even footing with the American. He approached the armchair where the outlaw was sitting and called out to him again. The American immortal looked at him, but still seemed a bit distant, like his head was somewhere else entirely. "Are we going to live in this cabin forever?"

Billy scratched his head. "Well, I've been thinking about that. We probably shouldn't."

Machiavelli's heart plummeted. He had grown rather fond of the cabin, thinking of it as his first real home. "Why not?" he asked, keeping his tone carefully neutral.

Billy reached for his hand. The act was surprisingly reassuring in how it brought them back into physical contact. "Niccolò, you're getting bigger every day. You're beginning to look like you used to, albeit quite younger. If we are being pursued by our old masters, we have to be more careful now."

"But if anything, you'd be more recognizable, you haven't looked different at all," Machiavelli cried out, struggling to contain his emotions.

"But together we're very recognizable. In this isolated spot, it's been easier to stay below the radar especially when you looked so little. I was just a man with a cute, little boy. But now the age gap between us is rapidly closing, don't you see that? It'll be harder to explain to people. Besides," Billy reached out for Machiavelli with both hands, "I didn't intend on us staying here as long as we did."

"So, we're all going to a new spot? That doesn't make sense. Perenelle and Nicholas just made that arrangement with the book store." The Italian was beginning to feel a bit dizzy again in his agitation.

"Well, no. As a group, we're going to stick out no matter where we go. We're going to split up again, just until I can track down my master. I think you're safe from yours for now. He liked you. Anyways, you and I are going to go to one of my other safe houses and Scatty will stay here with the Flamels." Billy watched Machiavelli's face closely as he spoke. Machiavelli's face was rapidly going pale. It hadn't occurred to him that he was going to lose his family group all over again. Not now that he had grown so accustomed to it.

"Mac, you're shaking," Billy said. He pulled the Italian down beside him. "Are you alright, Mac? You just seem on edge all the time."

Machiavelli tilted his head, shielding his eyes with his long lashes. He looked out the window at the sloping lawn cascading down upon the lake. Already, the leaves were falling from the trees. "I don't want the summer to end."

Billy stroked his back. "Mac, you know better than me that we can't stop time from going on." Machiavelli nodded slightly. "Besides, we can have fun in different places. I promised you I'd make your life fun. Remember we said we'd see Germain in concert?"

"I thought we were going to restore a car together."

"We can still do that," Billy said gently. "And I told you I'd teach you to drive. We've got a lot left to do." He hesitated before pecking Machiavelli on the temple. "I'm going to miss the others too. But for now this is our safest bet."

"I guess. But why didn't you ask me before you made all of these plans?"

Billy rubbed circles on the Italian's back. "Yeah, I should have sweetheart. I'm sorry about that." The outlaw folded the teenager into his side, keeping one arm wrapped around his middle, as if to keep him from running away. Billy really surprised Machiavelli with what he said next. "I'm not the only one guilty of making decisions without consulting the other one of us though, you know."

Machiavelli looked over at Billy, but the American immortal was looking out the front windows at the lake. "You mean, me running away?" Billy nodded slightly. "I," his mouth was suddenly dry, "I thought you were mad at me. I didn't think you wanted me anymore."

Billy glanced at him with a little surprise. This seemed to be a new revelation to the young looking man. "You're my partner. I always want you around." Machiavelli was beyond words. A small part of his heart seemed to unclench at Billy's admission.

Billy, on the other hand, seemed a little uncomfortable with what was rapidly unfolding. It seemed like at last they had reached a point where he felt he had said too much, versus Machiavelli who consistently felt that way around his young American friend. "Do you want to do this now? Or wait until you're better?"

"I think we should have our talk now," Machiavelli said decisively. He had finally come to the conclusion that he wouldn't feel completely better until he had cleared the air with the man he had come to love so much.

Billy sighed. "Yeah, you're probably right. We'll both feel better." He crossed his legs underneath him so that he was sitting Indian style on the couch. He seemed to be struggling with something. "Why'd you think I didn't want you around anymore? I didn't think I reacted that badly that night."

Machiavelli felt like the wind had been knocked out of him. This was a point that had clearly bothered Billy. "Well, I've been so bad, lately," he said, stumbling over his words. "And I knew I really let you down that night. And then," his throat closed on the words, "I had that- that"

"You had a nightmare," Billy said helpfully, leaning forward slightly.

"How'd you know about that?" Machiavelli asked suspiciously. "The girls?"

"Scatty."

"Well, yeah, I had a nightmare," Machiavelli conceded very quietly. He looked down at his shoes. "I have it all the time."

"You see me dying?" Billy asked carefully. He waited until Machiavelli nodded. "Huh," was the outlaw's first response. "But you know I'm not going to leave you anytime soon."

Machiavelli tore his eyes off of his shoelaces. Somehow, Billy had proved again that he could be very perceptive. "Well, that's not really true is it? I'm what, 15 now? Once I'm an adult again, we'll be going our separate ways."

Billy was quiet. "I suppose. If that's what you want."

"Want?" Machiavelli swallowed thickly. "No, it's not really what I want." The two immortals stared at each other, neither of them saying anything. Both seemed equally afraid to break this sudden silence.

"It's not what I would like either," Billy said finally. He messed up his hair with both of his hands. "I think we've said enough today, Mac. Want to watch a movie?"

"What movie?" Machiavelli asked evenly.


	71. Chapter 71

AN: Thought I ought to post the new chapter in honor of Machiavelli's birthday today. He's getting older in the story too! Hope everyone is still enjoying this. ~LilacsandMonarda

They ended up watching Howl's Moving Castle, which was appropriate as they had just finished the book. Machiavelli had not so secretly loved both of them, but for different reasons. Now that he was looking older again though, he felt that he should be a bit reserved, so he tried to contain his enthusiasm. He ended up reading the book over again under his bed covers at night, when the other immortals went to bed.

He couldn't completely assume the role of adult yet though as Billy still insisted on taking care of him. Though Billy allowed him growing freedom again as the days went past without incident, he was still relatively sure that the American immortal was keeping an eye on him.

What he couldn't know was that Billy was experiencing his own share of conflicted emotions. The growth that Machiavelli went through as time went on did not go unnoticed by the outlaw, who both yearned to see the older Machiavelli again and dreaded him growing up at the same time. This left the young man with some amount of guilt because the Italian's illness took away a lot of this confusion. With Machiavelli not feeling well, he was able to take care of him without reserve. But this too, would come to an end.

"Want to come into town with me?" Billy asked one afternoon.

Machiavelli, who had been cooped up at the cabin for almost a week now, jumped at the occasion. He scrambled off of the steps and pushed his feet back into his sneakers, hurriedly tying them up. "Where are we going to go?"

"I just thought you might like to spend some time somewhere besides the cabin," Billy said, popping open the passenger side door for Machiavelli and sliding smoothly around the end of the car to the other side. "We could go anywhere."

Machiavelli thought it over. "Let's go out to eat. We can decide from there."

"Sounds like a plan," Billy said, flashing a smile as he revved the engine. "You know one of these days, we'll have to teach you how to drive."

The Italian immortal groaned a little. "I thought you might have forgotten about that." Now as he approached adulthood again, the idea seemed less appealing.

"Nope! You're going to be great at it too."

Machiavelli glanced over to see Billy. The American was smiling broadly. He envied the younger immortal's carefree attitude. Billy had one hand on the wheel and his other hand thrown over the car door. Clearly, he was not concerned with anything at that point of time.

"Like what you see?" Billy joked.

Machiavelli realized that he must have been staring a bit at the American. He faced forward again. "Yeah," he said very quietly. He hoped that Billy hadn't heard him.

"I think when we go into town, I'm going to get you a notebook," Billy said thoughtfully.

"Why?"

Billy shrugged. "I just think it would be good for you. Get all your thoughts out." He looked over at Machiavelli with a funny expression. "Don't have to if you don't want to, of course."

"It couldn't hurt," he answered shyly.

~MB~

Machiavelli banged his leg on the footboard of his bed the first moment he woke up the next day. He cursed a little and gingerly maneuvered his way out of the covers.

Sitting on the side of his bed, he realized that he had really shot up in the middle of the night. He hadn't experienced a growth spurt like this since his body had been really little. It was again unsettling for him, especially since his body had been changing at a relatively slow pace for the past couple of weeks.

Stepping in front of the full length mirror in his closet, he squinted at his reflection. The clothes he had been wearing were now ridiculously too small and he pulled them off, momentarily getting stuck in his shirt. Undressed now, he couldn't help but stare at himself, glad his body was finally beginning to look as it had.

He was now much taller, angular, and his features were hardening into their adult form. Beyond that, he was glad to begin to look more as an adult in other regions of his body. He hoped this marked the end of his acne, emotional outbursts, and embarrassing nightly emissions. He stood up against the wall where Billy had been marking his height. He was now at least half a foot taller.

At last satisfied with his appearance, he began to root around for clothes. He found a pair of jeans which had previously been too long for him; they fit rather well now. Having been unable to find underpants that didn't cut off circulation in, well, important areas, he zippered the pants shut very carefully. None of his shirts were long enough for his torso now, so he wandered across the hall to Billy's closet.

He hesitated only briefly before he began to rifle through. He considered stealing some of the American immortal's underwear as well, but after pulling open the drawer, was confronted with more than he was prepared to deal with and shut it just as quickly. He wandered over to the closet instead. At the very far right hand side, found two button down shirts. One was white with light blue lines and the other, a dark purple. He pulled the white one on, tucking it in as he left the room.

"Billy! Guess what," Machiavelli called happily. He thumped down the flight of stairs quickly and nearly ran into the front door. He skidded into the kitchen, glancing at Perenelle, before coming to a stop by Billy. The American was laying under the sink, and from the scattered tools are him, Machiavelli guessed he was either trying to fix something or dig a small tunnel.

"What's up?" Billy's voice sounded oddly hollow. It echoed slightly against the basin of the sink.

"I measured myself this morning," Machiavelli said happily, bouncing on the soles of his feet.

Billy gestured at him with a wrench, staying under the cabinet. "Remember, Mac, size doesn't matter."

"It does when I'm taller than you," Machiavelli retorted.

"What?" Billy banged his head coming out of the cabinet. He gingerly rubbed his forehead where it had hit the woodwork. The Italian pulled him to his feet, impatient to show off. "Oh, no, no, no. How could this be? You're 16!" He gestured to Perenelle who was very carefully keeping a straight face. "This isn't fair," Billy muttered to himself. He put his hands on Machiavelli's shoulders which were now at the same level as his own. "And isn't this my shirt?"

Machiavelli looked around. "So this is how you see the world. Interesting."

Scathach came into the kitchen. She glanced at the two male immortals, then did a double take. "Wow, you grew a lot."

"I know, it sucks," Billy mumbled. He pushed the Italian down into one of the kitchen table chairs and sat beside him. The American put his head down on the table.

Machiavelli stroked the top of Billy's head and did his best not to make eye contact with either of the women. He knew if he did, he wouldn't be able to keep himself from laughing. "Cheer up," he said to the American. "You knew this was going to happen at some point. I am much taller than you as an adult."

Billy grumbled under his breath but picked his head up. "I thought maybe when you were a kid thought, I'd have half a chance." He shook his head at the Italian. "I'm going back to fixing my pipe."

"I'm sorry, Billy," Machiavelli called. He turned back to the women and leaned forward. "Am I old enough now that we can get me some suits? Cause if I outgrow them, we can always give them to Billy." He cocked his head at the string of curses that suddenly came from beneath the sink. The Italian grinned despite himself. "Please?" he asked the girls.

"He's going to outgrow it and I don't need any suits," Billy called.

Machiavelli flapped his arms around a little in outrage. "All men need suits," he said, sounding scandalized.

"It's his birthday, Billy," Perenelle said soothingly. "It can't hurt."

"Yes!" Machiavelli beamed, having won. He grinned happily down at Billy who shook his head at him but his stern expression was belied by the crinkle of his eyes.

Perenelle patted him on the shoulder, getting up from her spot at the table. "Grab something to eat and we'll go." She headed out the backdoor, presumably to gather whatever stuff she needed.

Scatty shook her head. She grabbed a piece of fruit and wandered out again.

"Ah, by the way, Billy," Machiavelli lowered his voice and knelt beside the other immortal. He leaned over the American, who had to stop fiddling with the pipe to look at him questioningly.

"What's up, Mac?"

"I'm not wearing any underwear," the Italian whispered, checking over his shoulder again to make sure they were alone.

Billy sat up and banged his head against the cabinet again. A small stream of blood trickled down his forehead and he looked a little deranged. "What?"

Machiavelli swiped away the blood before it could stain Billy's shirt. "I don't have any that fits anymore," he said, gesturing to his body. He realized that he was kind of straddling one of the American's thighs and he quickly moved over.

"Why didn't you just take some from my room? You've already got my shirt." Billy pulled himself up and started for the stairs. Machiavelli followed him up.

Machiavelli blushed. "I was going to, but then I went in your drawer and…" He trailed off, gesturing at the drawer.

"What's the matter? The jock strap? You don't have to wear that," Billy commented, pulling a pair of briefs out. He tried to hand it over to Machiavelli, who took it reluctantly. "Not the jock strap, huh?" Billy guessed correctly, interpreting the look on his face. "What then?"

The Italian plunged his hand into the mess and came out with a rather skimpy leopard print thong. He held it between two fingers and raised his eyebrows at Billy. "This yours?"

"Joke gift," Billy defended himself. He refused to look embarrassed. "You want to criticize me, you'll end up wearing that. Go change."

They heard Perenelle call from downstairs. Machiavelli hustled to the top of the stairs, handing Billy the thong as he rushed past. "Be right down." He looked back at Billy.

Billy saluted him. "Have fun kid."

"Bye!"


	72. Chapter 72

Machiavelli ended up coming back with a black suit that was minimally tailored (_for your sake_, he told Billy) to his body. He looked absolutely radiant done up in what he deemed 'real clothes' for once. The ride back in the open convertible had only worked in his favor, giving him a windswept look that the older immortal had not believed himself capable of carrying out.

"Hey!" he cried happily upon coming back to the cabin. Billy was sitting on the porch swing with Nicholas. The Italian immortal leaned on the balustrade of the porch, smiling up at them. "We found the perfect suit."

"Look at you," Billy said. His eyes crinkled. "Except for the hair and the fact that you're still kind of short-"

"-Taller than you."

"You look like you did when you got off that plane when we first met," Billy finished.

Machiavelli thumped up the stairs. "I guess I do, don't I?" He was still beaming.

The girls pushed past them on porch. "Dinner's almost ready," Billy told them. "I even set the table." Their small talk was interrupted by the sound of a beeper going off. The outlaw cocked his head. "See, what did I tell you?"

"How did you know when to make dinner?" Machiavelli asked, following closely behind him.

"Perenelle called me on the way back."

"Do you really think it looks good?" he asked the American immortal, sitting beside him

"Yeah. Of course. I just think you're a bit crazy thinking I'll be wearing that when you grow out of it."

"Why? You'd look good in it," Scatty teased. "We picked it out so that it would look good on both of you."

Perenelle nodded, smiling. "In fact," she said, passing the carrots along, "we thought you might model it for us."

Billy shook his head, actually blushing. "I'm no model."

"Please, Billy?" Machiavelli begged.

"Ha!" Billy pointed at the Italian immortal. Machiavelli looked confused; he quirked his face at the American, not understanding the other man's reaction. Billy looked triumphant. "You've outgrown your puppy eyes. Your era of control over me is done!"

"I suppose so," the Italian sighed. He looked wistful. "I guess soon, you won't love me anymore. But I did like being with you this summer, even if it was all pretend…" He glanced at Billy, arranging his features into a look of total devastation.

"That's not fair, Mac," Billy protested. "Hey, stop looking sad." He elbowed Machiavelli lightly. The Italian continued to look a little morose. "Okay, fine, you win. You will always win. I'll try the suit on."

Machiavelli brightened considerably considering just moments before he had looked like he was on the edge. "Great! We'll do it after dinner."

Billy grumbled a little, bent over his shepherd's pie. Machiavelli put down his fork so that he could grab the American immortal's hand. Billy looked up at him. "You tricked me," he mumbled.

"I did," Machiavelli agreed mildly. He smiled fleetingly at the table around him, letting the conversations wash over him. Moments like this brought him back to those years before when he had been surrounded by his family. He'd never imagined he would recapture that feeling so late in the game.

When Billy put the last mouthful of food in his mouth, Machiavelli, who had clearly been waiting, pushed away from the table. "Time to switch," he said brightly. He pulled the American immortal towards the stairs.

"Alright, okay, I'm coming." Billy climbed the stairs slower than the European immortal. "I can't believe I agreed to this," he said, pulling his t-shirt off. He put a clean undershirt on and waited for his shirt back. Machiavelli threw it over from his room.

"You're going to look handsome."

"Just to be sure, you did put some underwear on in between this morning and now, didn't you?" Billy asked, pulling his wallet out of his pants.

"Course." But Billy didn't really have to worry anyways, the Italian had pulled on a pair of sweats before walking the rest of the suit over to him.

"Good." Billy gathered the pants and then jumped in, both feet first.

"Is that how you always put pants on?" Machiavelli asked with interest, leaning on the door frame. Billy shrugged and nodded, tucking the shirt in. "Don't forget the vest. And you should put on black socks."

"Why? We're not actually going anywhere." But Billy pulled out a pair of black socks, with gold toes regardless, and hunted around under his bed for his dress shoes. While he was doing that, Machiavelli looked at the ties in Billy's closest. He clucked. "What's the matter, Nicky? You don't like my ties," Billy called over.

"Nicky?" Machiavelli wrinkled his nose. "No, you need some new ties. I'm going to get you some." He selected one that he found the least offensive, dark blue and narrow. "Here," he said, climbing onto the American's bed, so that he was standing behind him. He did up the tie with quick practiced motions. Turning the other immortal, he tucked it in to the vest, suddenly surprised at how intimate the moment had become without him intending it to happen. He cleared his throat. "Here, put your jacket on. I'll tell them you're coming down now."

"Okay."

Machiavelli thumped downstairs, realizing that he would have to be more careful now that he was older. He found the other three immortals sitting around the living room. "He's almost ready," he announced, settling in next to Scatty on the loveseat.

"Should we put some music on for him?" Scatty asked, grinning so that her pointed teeth showed. "Anybody have a copy of the Stripper hanging around?"

Nicholas gave her a light smack on the arm. "Let's not torture him."

"You were always a good man, Nick," Billy said, padding down the stairs. He shook his head, a small smile tugging on his lips as he walked over. "Scatty, you're dead to me."

But he couldn't help laughing with the others.

~MB~

Luckily for Machiavelli, one of the chores Billy had performed was taking the footboard off of his bed. The American immortal had also pushed an ottoman at the end of the bed, meaning that the Italian slept well that night, stretched out to his full length.

Still, he was a fairly light sleeper, so when the Kid woke up early the next morning, he woke up too. He could hear the soft sounds of Billy's feet on the stairs, the excited yipping of the husky, and the rattle of the pet food as their dishes were filled. He decided to get up too.

By the time he was dressed, Billy had apparently gone through his morning routine, because he heard the soft rattle of the front door shutting. Pulling on his shoes, he followed him out into the dappled autumn sunlight.

Billy grabbed a bucket from the tool shed and ducked around the side of the cabin to where a pump stuck out of the stone foundation. After a few initial pumps, the faucet spit out brownish water which began to run clear. He dumped the bucket under the pump and filled it to the top before he got the sense that he was being watched. He glanced up and jumped slightly when he found Machiavelli standing not very far away.

Water sloshed from the bucket, but Billy didn't pay much mind. He put a hand on his heart. "Jeez, Mac, you startled me."

"Sorry," Machiavelli said shyly. He swung around the post of the front porch. "What are you doing?"

"I was going to wash the car," Billy answered, picking up the bucket again. They walked over together to the dusty red Thunderbird. The American immortal glanced sideways at his Italian friend. "You're out of your suit, I see. I thought you were wearing that for the rest of your life," he teased.

"Yeah, we'll there's no point wearing it out here," Machiavelli acknowledged. "But Scatty and the Flamels are going out to dinner tonight. They told me last night while we were waiting for you to come down. I thought we could eat together," he said shyly.

"And you'll wear your suit then?" Billy smiled. "Sure, I'll bite. But what am I going to wear?" he asked, faking a worried tone.

Machiavelli was bursting to tell him he could wear his birthday suit, but remembered the strained intimacy of the other night and changed directions. "Wear the blazer that you wore when we went to that Italian restaurant. You looked nice then. Handsome."

Billy ducked his head. Machiavelli felt, rather than saw his pleasure. "Aw, shucks, mummy, I'm blushing," the outlaw quipped. He reached over and placed a heavy hand on the Italian's shoulder. "Shouldn't you be inside? You're going to get sick out here."

"I feel okay," Machiavelli said, following the American immortal over to the car. "Can't I help you?" he asked hopefully.

"I don't know," Billy said thoughtfully. He glanced at the Italian, assessing him with a critical eye. "You still look peaky sometimes. I don't want to make you any worse." He bent over the bucket, dumping detergent in the water and swirled the water until the water became soapy.

"I'm just tired from the car ride yesterday. They make me tired," Machiavelli defended himself.

Billy didn't answer, but he looked up again and sighed. "Alright, I suppose so. But you start feeling bad, we're going inside."

"Seems fair," Machiavelli said happily. He was touched, but slightly impatient with Billy's mollycoddling. It had been over a week now since he had been sick and overall he was feeling normal. He altered the direction of the conversation. "How do you wash a car?"

Billy pulled a package of sponges from the backseat of the car. "Just wipe everything done with the soapy water. And try not to get the water on the inside of the car. It's not good for the leather."

"Okay," the Italian reached in the bucket and got a shock. He jerked his hand out again- the water was freezing. He hoped that Billy hadn't seen, but there was no such luck.

"Here, Mac, let me get it out," Billy said soothingly, pulling out the sponge and wringing it out. "The water from the pump is always freezing like this. It runs from the sheetrock below."

"I just wasn't expecting it to be that cold," Machiavelli mumbled.

"I probably should have warned you."

Billy scooped out another sponge and began to lather the hood of the car. He leaned onto the car, widening his stance to reach the middle of the hood. "I'm looking forward to you being older again, Mac," the outlaw mumbled.

Machiavelli stiffened slightly and ducked his head. The American's words hurt him. "Yes, I know I wasn't very good for a while." He angled his face away from the American and scrubbed the door determinedly.

"Aw, Mac, that's not what I meant at all," Billy said, straightening up. He came around the front fender and dropped to the ground beside the Italian. He settled on his haunches and swiped down the car with his sponge with long movements.

"I'm sorry, though," the Italian said, turning a dark shade of pink. "I was a real jerk."

"Yeah, a little bit," Billy agreed. "But I don't think we have to focus on it. I just meant that seeing you like you were…" He trailed off.

"Don't you like having me as a kid?" Machiavelli asked seriously. His dark eyes watched Billy's face carefully, his task forgotten.

"Course I do!" And he meant it too, that much was obvious.

The American strained to reach the back bumper, floundered for a moment, and gave it up as a bad job. He pushed himself up off of the ground, his worn boots pushing up small puffs of dust. Machiavelli pulled himself up as well and followed Billy to where the young immortal was wiping down the license plate.

"So why are you looking forward to me being an adult then?" Machiavelli asked suddenly, sounding confused. He wiped at the back hood of the car, but could only reach half of the hood.

Billy laughed. "Then you'll be tall enough to get the middle of the hood when we wash the car together. At my height, we're both useless."

"Are we going to be washing the car together when I'm an adult?" Machiavelli wondered out loud. "We never actually talked about how long we're going to live together. You stopped the conversation, remember?"

The outlaw accidentally dropped his sponge on the ground. He picked it up and tossed it in the bucket. Suds flew into the air. "You can stay with me for as long as you want. Life was lonely before I met you. If you get tired of it, you won't have to anymore."

"What if I want to stay with you for a long time?" the Italian asked carefully.

"Then you stay with me until you don't want to anymore," Billy repeated. "Of course, I can understand that you might not want to be with me once you have a chance for freedom, but I figure…"

"No, I want to!"

Billy's face broke into a smile. "Then it's settled. You're stuck with me!" He grabbed the Italian around the waist and lifted him in a tight circle. Machiavelli was surprised that Billy could still lift him. He wrapped an arm around his shoulders.

"I'm happy with you."

Billy pushed some hair out of the Italian's face. "You know, you're getting bigger kid. I don't have to stoop anymore to look in your eyes. I kind of miss that."

"You just said you wanted me to be an adult a minute ago."

Billy tossed the dirty water out. He laughed a little. "I don't know. I'm confused too." He pecked the Italian on the cheek. "Thanks for the help."


	73. Chapter 73

"What are you going to do now?" Machiavelli asked, following him back into the cabin.

"I don't know," Billy said thoughtfully. "Maybe I'll go back to bed for a couple of hours. I was having some trouble sleeping before for some reason. But I think I'm ready to sleep now." He looked back at the teenager. "What about you?"

Machiavelli shrugged. He kind of wanted to climb in with Billy like he might have a month ago, but realized that he couldn't do the same things as he had before. "Maybe I'll see if Nicholas wants to take a walk. It's his day off today."

"You might want to wait an hour or so," Billy said, glancing at his watch. "It's only 8:20."

"Is it?" _They must have gotten up earlier than he had thought_. Machiavelli glanced at the clock on the wall to be sure; Billy was right, it was only a little past 8 o'clock. "Oh. Well, then I don't know what I'm going to do."

Billy nodded. He rubbed at his face tiredly. "Here, let's eat breakfast. That'll take up some time. And then maybe you should go back to bed too." He came back down the stairs the rest of the way. He pushed him along to the back of the cabin where the kitchen was.

"Okay," Machiavelli agreed reluctantly. He felt jittery, knowing that he was moving into the last days of living in the cabin. He sat at the kitchen table, but on the very edge of the chair. He tapped out a rhythm on the oak table.

"So what do you want for breakfast?" Billy said, putting his hands on the Italian's shoulders. He rubbed the teenager's shoulders roughly. "I'm just going to have toast."

"Do we have any fruit? And yogurt?" Machiavelli got up and dug through the fridge. He pulled out the carton of Greek yogurt and a package of strawberries. "Want a strawberry?"

Billy accepted the red fruit. He pulled off the greens and stuffed the rest of it in his mouth. "Aren't you tired? You didn't sleep much."

"I'm a little bit tired," Machiavelli admitted. He thought for a minute. "Is your bed longer than mine?" he asked suddenly.

"Yeah, yours is a child size bed." Billy nodded. "Why, is it uncomfortable?"

"No, it's fine," Machiavelli assured her. "I was just wondering because I saw you don't need the ottoman to have enough space." But Billy's comment got him thinking. "Why do you have a kid's size bed in here? It was here when we got here."

Billy swirled the cereal in his bowl. He shrugged, but he was curiously quiet. Curious because the American immortal was normally so talkative.

"Did you ever have a kid here?" Machiavelli asked curiously.

"No. But there was a couple of times when I thought of adopting a child," Billy said very quietly, very reluctantly. "Being with you has only confirmed what I suspected for a long time. I like being a father. I want to have someone to come home to at the end of the day."

Machiavelli couldn't help himself from asking more questions. "What stopped you?"

Billy shrugged. "It wasn't a good idea. How do you explain to someone that you never get any older?"

"True," the Italian said, lowering his eyes. He wished in that moment that he could do something to make things better, but he knew that time was going to continue on as it did. They continued their breakfast, two people intimately acquainted and yet still strangers. "Nicholas is awake now," Machiavelli commented, breaking the silence.

"You going to take your walk now?"

"Sure."

"Okay, bring the dog. I'll be in bed for a couple of hours." Billy smiled up at him. "Have fun." Machiavelli got up to go outside. As he was edging around the table, Billy caught his wrist. Gazing up at the Italian immortal, he held out an arm. Machiavelli leaned over to enclose him in a brief hug.

~MB~

"Hey, you're awake," Machiavelli said coming through the door.

Billy glanced up from where he was lounging on the couch. "Yeah, you two must have had some walk." He was now clad in flannel pants and a wrinkled t-shirt. His hair was sticking up at odd angles and the Italian longed to reach out and fix it, but controlled himself. Unconsciously, he ran his hand through his hair which was getting quite long again.

"We walked around the entire pond."

"He kept a pretty good pace," Nicholas commented, sitting down. The Frenchman looked a little winded. "Especially since the path goes up and down some hills and there's roots… Scatty ended up coming with us."

"Where is our favorite vampire?" Billy drawled, leaning back down again. He hit the space bar on the laptop in front of him in order to stop the music that was currently playing. Nicholas made a vague motion. "You don't have a clue, do you?" Billy laughed. Nicholas shook his head. Billy turned his music back on.

"You must have a lot of music," Machiavelli told Billy, leaning over the back of the couch.

"I do," Billy acknowledged distractedly. He shook his head slightly and flipped over so that he was staring up at the teenager. He smiled wide, his two buck teeth prominent and flashing. "I love music."

"I like music, too," Machiavelli admitted rather shyly. "Could we go to the record store downtown sometime? And get some CDs?"

Billy reached up to touch the Italian's cheek for a brief moment. Machiavelli felt his throat catch slightly. "We can do that," Billy agreed sleepily, "but for now, you know, we could just find your music on YouTube."

"What's YouTube?"

Billy's hand dropped. He looked at the Italian with a horrified expression on his face and quickly sat up, so that the two immortals were very suddenly face to face. "You don't know YouTube? But Mac, you've lived in the 21st century…"

Machiavelli flushed. "Yes, but I was only really concerned with technology that helped me accomplish what I wanted to and I'm guessing this site is not…"

"…anything that will help you rise to power," Billy finished for him. "Still, though," the American trailed off. The idea that Machiavelli didn't know this basic form of technology seemed to be almost a personal insult to the immortal. He looked over at the French immortal. "Do you know Youtube?"

"Sure," Nicholas said, barely looking up from his newspaper.

This seemed to be enough for Billy. Abruptly, he grabbed Machiavelli around the shoulders and brought him tumbling over the back of the couch. The Italian immortal tried to prevent himself from falling and only succeeded in landing further down on the American's torso than he had intended or wanted. Being very careful about where he put his hands, Machiavelli managed to extract himself from the brouhaha and looked over to Billy who was grinning at him.

"Still," Billy continued his thought from before, "you should know what YouTube is. Come over here." He swung his long legs off of the couch and patted the seat by his side. Machiavelli hesitantly shifted over next to him. "What do you want to listen to?"

The Italian paused. He could smell Billy's aftershave and for whatever reason, the smell of it was distracting him terribly. He struggled to regain control of his mind. "Hmm… in 1821, I heard Schubert's fourth version of Erlkönig. Could you find that?"

"Easily," Billy drawled. "It's in my favorites already, actually…" He clicked on a couple of links and suddenly the sounds of the piano piece beginning filled the room. Machiavelli was captivated. He unconsciously grabbed for Billy's hand at his favorite line when the Erlkönig sang '_Ich liebe dich, mich reizt deine schöne Gestalt/ Und bist du nicht willig, so brauch ich Gewalt_.' Goosebumps formed on his arms.

Machiavelli looked up at Billy, his eyes sparkling. As soon as the song ended, he clamored closer to the American immortal. "Why didn't you show me this sooner?" he demanded.

"I just assumed that you already knew about it. I've been listening to music ever since we met, how have you not noticed?" Billy laughed. Machiavelli was going to answer but the outlaw cut him off with a kiss to the temple and suddenly he felt very wrongfooted. "Oh, Mac, I've got to show you this," Billy said, leaning forward and typing furiously. "It's the song I most associate with you. Makes me laugh…."

Machiavelli leaned forward and mouthed the words '_Nothing Suits me like a Suit_' to himself as the video began to play. About thirty seconds into the song, he began to laugh, especially when he looked over and say Billy acting out the song along with Neil Patrick Harris. "He's really handsome," the Italian acknowledged as the song ended.

"Yeah," Billy agreed offhandedly. "But did you like the song?"

"Oh, I loved the song. I like it just as much as Erlkönig now. For two very different reasons, you understand, but…" He took the laptop from Billy. "Can I borrow this for a little while? Just until our dinner?"

Billy nodded. He stretched out again, absentmindedly rubbing Georgette behind her ears. He seemed quite content to lounge around, talking to Nicholas and Machiavelli.


	74. Chapter 74

"If you'd wanted to go out to dinner with the others, we could have done that," Machiavelli said thoughtfully. He felt a little bad, keeping their group separated for his own interests. Especially now, when their days together were literally numbered.

"I wanted to have dinner with you," Billy said. He grinned. "I like you best of all." There was a warm surge of feeling in Machiavelli's chest. Sometimes he wished Billy knew what he was doing to the poor Italian immortal. _Pure thoughts, chaste thoughts_, he chanted in his head as he helped the American immortal set the table. Billy chattered away, his voice washing over the Italian immortal.

"What are we having for dinner?" Machiavelli broke in finally, subconsciously reaching out to straighten Billy's tie.

"Mmm? Um, lamb. I made a rack of lamb and rice," Billy sounded almost embarrassed. "Want something to drink?"

Machiavelli raised his eyebrows. "You mean like an actual drink?"

Billy nodded and shrugged. "Yeah, sure. I picked up a bottle of Chianti at the liquor store." He finally interpreted the expression on the Italian's face correctly. "Oh, come on, I trust you. It's not like you're normally an alcoholic, it was just one night."

"I guess I'll have a glass then," Machiavelli allowed.

"I promise I'll cut you off when I need to," Billy said. There was a few moments where neither of them talked and Machiavelli began to wonder if he had made a mistake. Billy was the first to break the quiet. "Hey, Mac, did I ever tell you about the time I went to the 1893 Chicago World Fair?"

Machiavelli shook his head, smiling in the soft light. He could tell Billy was excited to tell this story and the excitement spilled over into him. So he kept quiet, letting Billy progress with his story and occasionally taking sips from his wine glass.

The outlaw was so excited that when he rubbed his hands together, wisps of reddish purple aura spilled off of his hands, touching the air with the scent of cayenne pepper. "I was there," Billy said baldly, unnecessarily. "I was supposed to perform in it, actually. See, I was running low on funds at the time, so I agreed to work with Buffalo Bill Cody in one of his Wild West exhibits."

"So you pretended to be a cowboy, a horse stealer?" Machiavelli asked shrewdly. "And they paid you to do this?"

Billy grinned and nodded. He seemed especially pleased that Italian had caught on so early into the story. "Like taking candy, right? But anyways, as it works out, this was all a minor point anyways. The fair owners wouldn't let us in."

"Why not?" Machiavelli broke in. He frowned. From what he remembered of the time, those western shows had been incredibly popular. He couldn't imagine the crowds would say no.

Billy waved a hand impatiently. "Some disagreement in pay. I don't really remember. Bill was pissed though. He brought the whole crew up anyways and we set up right in front of the fair's entrance." He laughed, amusement evident on his face. "To get to the fair, people had to cross through some warring Indians and cowboys and sharpshooters."

Machiavelli pictured Victorian ladies done up in their poofy skirts, running through a battlefield. The idea was so ludicrous that the European immortal couldn't help laughing too. Billy was now laughing so hard, that he started to cry a little. "Black Hawk was there," he chuckled. "Got on his horse, he did, and chased this really fat woman-" He couldn't say anymore, caught in silent laughter.

Niccolò tried to take a sip of water, thought about the story again, and ended up spitting the water out again. He was glad it hadn't been the wine. "Sorry," he gasped, dabbing at his suit jacket with a napkin. Attempting to regain control of the conversation had never worked in the past, but he still felt compelled to try. "So that was your story?"

Billy had been leaning back in his chair. He let the front legs fall forward again with a small bang and shook his head frantically. "Wait, there's more."

"Billy, have you been watching a lot of TV at night again?" The American shook him off. He made an impatient, tutting noise and Machiavelli apologized to keep the conversation flowing. "Oh, I'm sorry for interrupting. Go ahead."

The Kid unclasped his hands for a moment to open them in brief, comic gratitude. "Thank you sir. So anyways, I decided to go into the fair and – I don't know if you remember this – this was the year that they premiered the first Ferris wheel." He gestured to himself. "I went on it."

"And how was that?" Machiavelli smiled. He had a pretty good idea how it went.

Sure enough, Billy didn't fail to meet his expectations. "Oh, it was pretty terrifying. I've told you before that I never say nothing scares me. Cause that ride scared me. Worse than that mangy sphinx, actually." Billy said this all in a quick rush of air. Sometimes Machiavelli wondered if he stopped for breath. "So anyways, it cost 50 cents to get in, which is also ridiculous, but still, I paid it and…

Billy continued to tell him about the ride, leaving out no details. He described the harrowing journey to the top of 264 foot tall Ferris wheel. It did actually sound a little frightening to the Italian, especially when his companion began to describe how the wind was blowing and the creaking noise that the steel girders made as the wind blew through them. Occasionally, Machiavelli had to remind Billy to eat his meal.

"…the only reason why I didn't completely freak out was because I knew that I was immortal, so it couldn't kill me," Billy finished off. He grinned happily.

Niccolò shook his head. The outlaw always lived his life so fully, at times Machiavelli was a bit jealous of the man. He knew that he would have never willingly gone on that Ferris wheel himself. Watching Billy clear their dinner plates, he realized too late that he should have helped. He got out of his chair and carefully maneuvered his way around to the kitchen.

Billy was getting dessert ready. He went to grab the plates, intent on helping the American immortal in some way. "Stop that," Billy commanded quietly.

Machiavelli turned around halfway to the table. "Stop bringing the plates over?" he queried smoothly.

Billy shook his head. "No, the dark thoughts. Stop thinking about them." _So Billy had once again read his face. _He shrugged and offered a charming smile up. Billy took one of the plates from him. Using his spoon as a sort of baton, Billy gestured at him. "I told you I'd teach you to have fun this summer and I did, didn't I?"

Machiavelli nodded. "You did good."

"Ah, but I can do better." Billy held out his spoon and Machiavelli took a bite from it. "Why stop now? We're going to continue to have fun."

"In Philadelphia? So, tell me about this next place we're living."

"Oh, I always liked Philly. Better than New York in my opinion. More wide open spaces," Billy began. "If I have to live in a city, Philly's one of my top choices."

"You don't like living in the city?"

Billy shrugged. "I like fresh air and lots of it. Besides I always grew up kind of outside of towns, except for when we lived in Kansas, but that place was a mess."

Machiavelli quirked his eyebrows. "What was wrong with it?"

"Sewage in the streets, gunfighters blowing in at all times of the year, and my mother, she had to work in the town's laundromat. Course it wasn't good for her health. I used to go in there to bring her lunch, there was fumes everywhere and it was very hot. The air was bad. I think it made her sicker," Billy explained very quickly. It was obvious he found this line of the conversation very unpleasant and Machiavelli felt bad. He seemed to have a knack for bringing the conversation around to things that Billy didn't want to talk about.

"Anyways, Philly's not like that, at least not the part that we're staying in," Billy ended on a high note, shifting the conversation yet again. "See, Mac, the good thing about being immortal is that you buy a place, not knowing that 50 years later, it's going to be in the middle of the good part of town. Same thing happened in Boston. I sold an apartment up there that used to be in the middle of the red light district. Now it's worth a fortune apparently."

"Is that why you don't seem to worry about money?" Machiavelli asked curiously. This was a new piece of information that he hadn't thought of before.

Billy shrugged, held up a hand. "I've been poor, been relatively well off. Doesn't matter, does it? I always survive." He laughed and Machiavelli had to smile. _Billy really lived life_, he reflected.

As it turned out, Billy knew quite a bit of history about the Pennsylvania city. He filled Machiavelli in on some of the more intimate details, opting for the more personal stories rather than the historically significant or interesting at times. Machiavelli, though sad to be parting from the cabin, began to feel the first tendrils of excitement as Billy described where they'd be living.

"And are we going to stay there for a while too?" Machiavelli had to know.

"We might," Billy wagered cheerfully. "Maybe not. Depends on what comes up. I've got a few more places we can stay at too, should our position get compromised."

"Now you're the one sounding paranoid," the Italian commented. He scraped the rest of his bowl. "Billy, could I have more?"

"Mac, you're not a little kid anymore. You want more, go get it."

Machiavelli flushed a little. He had forgotten that he was now the same height as Billy, almost legally an adult again, and thus had both his faculties and abilities again. "Oh yeah," he said sheepishly. "Do you want more?"

"No, I'm watching my figure." Machiavelli chuffed at him and Billy looked a little affronted. "What? I am. I don't know how you get away with eating everything under the sun and still being so goddamn skinny, but I look stocky after a while."

"You've always been stocky," Machiavelli reminded him. He looked around for the ice cream scoop, couldn't find it, and decided to eat out of the carton instead. "I still love you," he said through a mouthful of cream.

Billy watched him carefully eating his ice cream and shook his head when Machiavelli spread out a napkin over his suit. "Thanks, fatso."

"What'd you call me?" The gray eyed immortal looked like he had been terribly insulted.

"I said I love you too." Billy slid next to him where he had sat on the couch. "Okay, give me some of that."

"You said you didn't want any," Machiavelli protested. He clutched the carton to his chest.

Billy smacked him not so lightly on the shoulder. "Oh, come on. Don't be selfish." The two scuffled for the carton. ("You're going to wrinkle my suit!") The American immortal managed to pin him at one point, but Machiavelli smacked him in the nose with his spoon. The two were squabbling so loudly that they didn't hear the others drive up at all, until Scatty was standing over them. To this, Billy gave a very unmanly squawk, followed by a sigh of relief when he recognized her. "This isn't what it looks like," he said through gritted teeth, refusing to let go of the carton.

"It looks like two men in suits fighting over a carton of ice cream."

"Oh, well, then it's exactly what it looks like," Billy grunted, catching Machiavelli in a choke hold. "And the night was going so well, up till now."


	75. Chapter 75

"How'd I get out of my suit last night?" Machiavelli asked the next day. He had a slight headache and a fuzzy taste in his mouth that he suspected was from the wine, but no recollection of last night past a certain hour. He rubbed at his temples.

"Nicholas and I kind of wrestled you out of it after you passed out last night," Billy said, gently rubbing his back. "Now that you're actually taller than me," he fumbled with his words a little and coughed, "I have a hard time maneuvering you up the stairs and such. Wine makes you sleepy, huh?"

Machiavelli shrugged and nodded. He decided to be glad that Billy had gotten him out of his suit and not be embarrassed. "Yeah, kind of. When did I pass out?" He asked curiously, his Italian accent creeping out.

Nicholas tilted his head, thinking. "Halfway through the movie, I think. Columbo was just beginning to examine the safe."

"Ah, yes," Machiavelli agreed. "I was having trouble focusing last night. I kept getting distracted by the glass eye." He gestured at his own face.

"See, that's where we differ, Mac," Billy said, snapping his fingers and pointing at him. He got up and began to prepare breakfast. "Whenever I get very drunk, I spend the whole time trying to figure out which one's the glass eye."

"Am I the only one who watches Columbo for the story?" Nicholas asked mildly. Machiavelli grinned at him sheepishly.

"Where are the girls?" Machiavelli asked instead of answering.

"Perenelle tends to sleep in on her days off," Nicholas answered. "And Scatty's… walking? I think?" he said, hesitantly.

Billy finally sat down at the table. He handed the Italian immortal a glass of water and four small white pills. "Here you go, Mac. Bottoms up."

Nicholas watched him swallow. "How much did you drink last night then?"

"Mmm, two glasses?" Machiavelli speculated, looking over at the American. He quirked his eyebrows. Billy tilted his head and nodded. "Yeah, two glasses. I'm not drunk," he clarified. "I just always get hungover."

"Oh, I wasn't saying that." The Frenchman looked over at Billy. "What about you? Did you have fun last night?"

Billy nodded enthusiastically. "Sure. Mac's a great guy." He rested a hand on the back of Niccolo's neck and gently massaged the muscle there. "We talked a lot about Philadelphia, the place we're staying next. You ever stay there?"

Nicholas shook his head. "We stayed briefly in Buffalo, New York, to disastrous result. But mostly we stayed over here on the west coast."

"I think I'll like living on the east coast," Machiavelli said hesitantly. "There's a lot of cultural attractions over there. I've never been."

"I liked living on both sides," Billy said happily. He shoveled food in his mouth. Speaking around his mouthful of food, he continued. "That's why I keep places all over the country. I've got one up in New Hampshire too." He thumped the Italian on the back. "I told you about that one."

Machiavelli nodded. He felt the same jealous twinge that he had in the past, remembering Billy's story about the girl up there. "Will we go there, too?"

Billy thought about it. "We could."

~MB~

Billy drove the Flamels down to town after lunch. Perenelle could have driven the car, but Billy had some things to pick up before they could make their trip at the end of the week. They left Machiavelli at the cabin, afraid that his now noticeable growth would make an impression on the people at the stores.

The Italian immortal could see the reasoning behind the logic, but still wished he could have gone. The cabin was a little lonely by himself and so he was very glad when Scatty showed up from wherever she'd been hiding. "Scatty," he called, untangling himself the mess around him, suitcases open and gaping.

Scatty stepped carefully into the room. She glanced around the room. "Packing, huh?"

"Billy says we have to if we're going to leave on time," the Italian said, looking around the room. He sighed. It hadn't occurred to him that he was going to regret leaving the cabin as much as he did, but now he did.

"Come on, kid," Scatty said impatiently. She seemed ready to head out again and Machiavelli perked up at the opportunity to stall packing.

"Where are we going?" Machiavelli asked curiously. He followed her nonetheless. Scathach and him, while much closer than he had ever imagined they would be, didn't often spend time alone together. Scatty didn't answer him, just glanced back at him and grinned slightly. Nor would she answer him when he asked what was in the package she was carrying.

They crunched along on the given path for a while, sunlight slanting at them through the branches of the trees. As the forest got denser, less light came in, making the path darker. Eventually, they turned off the path entirely and walked into the forest.

Machiavelli was starting to get a little nervous. Speeding up so that he was right next to her, he grabbed at her hand. "Billy approved this?"

"He didn't say no."

"That's not a yes," Machiavelli said shrewdly. "Did you ask at all?" She chose to ignore this, but the gray eyed boy persisted. "Where are we going?" he asked again.

"Since I don't sleep a lot, I have a lot of time to explore," was her roundabout way of answering. She came to a halt in a clearing. "We'll stop here."

The Italian milled around the clearing. "What are we doing?" He looked back.

Scathach lunged at him unexpectedly. "What?" he dropped to the ground. "Scatty? What's going on? What are you doing?" he stammered.

"Training," Scatty said imperiously. She tossed him a wooden sword that matched the one she was wielding. Machiavelli hadn't even initially noticed the sword in her hand, it had seemed such a part of her. She swung it around. "Relax. If I hadn't wanted to kill you, I would have done it by now."

"Oh, yeah, now I can relax," Machiavelli said sarcastically, but he smiled. He held the sword carefully in front of him. "Teach me your ways then," he agreed happily.

Scatty came to stand behind him, which made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up a little. "For one thing, you're holding it the wrong way." She corrected his grip on the sword. With her foot she also moved his legs out a little so that he was standing in the proper position. "You want your legs out enough that you won't be swept off your feet."

"Actually, I'd love to be swept off my feet," Machiavelli joked. He grinned at her over his shoulder. His smile faltered at her stern expression. "No? We're not joking then? Okay." He went back into the stance she had positioned him in. After that, he followed her instructions to the letter, obediently following her directions. It was kind of fun, though he had a feeling the Shadow didn't intend for this to be a joyous occasion.

Scatty was drilling him as though he was joining the army. He couldn't help but smile which caused her to scowl. "Why are we doing this?" he asked finally, collapsing on the ground by her feet in a sweaty heap. He quickly amended his statement. "Not that I don't appreciate your training."

The Shadow dropped down beside him. She was as pristine as ever, despite their prolonged scuffle. "You need to be able to defend yourself out there."

"I have my aura," Machiavelli reminded her gently. "I'm hardly defenseless. And I'll have Billy to take care of me too. I'm going to teach him what I know and he'll teach me." Be he understood the motivations behind Scatty's actions and he was oddly touched.

"Let's just say I wanted to be sure you had some more options."

"You care about me don't you?" he teased. "After all these years, who'd have thought it?"

"No."

Machiavelli gave a quick laugh. He was all smiles. "You do! I have to be your favorite." He threw his arms around her impulsively. Scatty turned to stone under his touch, but he refused to draw away. "We've come a long way from where we were."

"Maybe," Scatty grudgingly allowed. She climbed to her feet. "Want to practice again before we go home?"

Machiavelli nodded. He was enjoying this exercise after spending a week inside. He sparred with Scatty, losing repeatedly. Though there was some improvement in the way he moved and fought, he would never touch her level of expertise. "This is one of those things I won't ever be good at," he decided towards the end of the afternoon. He leaned against Scatty, expecting her to object again. He was rather surprised when she slipped an arm around him.

"I do like you," she admitted, very quietly. He smiled.


	76. Chapter 76

"Damn!"

"Billy?"

"Mac? Did I wake you?" Billy came out of the kitchen and looked guiltily up at the Italian immortal where he was standing on the stairs.

Machiavelli came the rest of the way down the stairs. "No. I got up to go to the bathroom and on my way back I saw your door open. What are you doing?" He padded across the living room, being careful to not trip over the husky, who was sprawled across the floor. The dog made a whimpering noise and started moving his paws. Niccolò petted him a couple of times and the whimpering stopped.

"I couldn't sleep," Billy said, shrugging. He pulled the Italian into the kitchen where a warm wash of light came over both of them. "Whenever I was upset as a kid, my mother would do some baking. I thought I'd try… but as you can see it did not go very well." He gestured to the stove. There were a couple of baking pans, with very flat disks stuck very firmly to them. Billy sucked on one of his fingers which looked like it had been burned.

Machiavelli looked at the pans. "Are they cakes?" he asked uncertainly.

Billy laughed. "Sort of," he admitted, "but not really. They're supposed to be whoopee pies but for some reason, they're sort of-"

"Flat," Machiavelli supplied.

"I don't know why they did that," Billy said, pulling a bowl of filling from the fridge. He began to fill the pies, pressing two pieces together. "Oh well, they seem to taste okay. I guess that's all that matters."

"I like them," Machiavelli told him, stuffing a rather large whoopee pie in his mouth.

Billy stopped filling the treats for a moment to grin at the Italian. "That's not saying much, Mac. One thing I've learned this summer is that you really have a sweet tooth to rival my own."

"So why are you upset?" Niccolò asked curiously. He sat at the table and yawned. Outside it was still fairly dark out, but lighter blue rays were beginning to stain the edges of the sky. He waited patiently for Billy to answer.

Billy slid into the seat next to him. "Oh, I'm not really upset, myself. I just don't like transitioning to new things. That's why I like them to just happen, no thinking." He smiled happily, but there was tired tinge to the corners of his eyes. He took a bite from one of the pies. "Maybe that's why I stay away from people. They tie you down."

"You don't want that?"

Billy shrugged. "It's what I used to think I wanted. But recently I've been thinking otherwise." He looked over at the Italian. "You know, when I picked you up at the airport back when this all started, I was waiting for you and there was all these families. I…" He made a face. "I wondered what they felt like, having someone waiting for them. I think it might make it worth it, being tied down, if it was for the right person."

Machiavelli smiled. He tapped Billy's hand with his right pinky finger. "We always have our big talks late at night. Why do we do that?"

"I don't know. I don't normally talk this much about how I feel." He put his sweet down. "Well, I guess we should get some sleep. You coming up?"

"Mm, in a little bit. I don't think I'm ready quite yet."

"Alright, well I'll see you when the sun's up," Billy yawned. "Don't stay up too long."

"Okay." Machiavelli sat and listened to the sound of Billy's footfalls on the stairs. He could hear the floorboards creak as Billy settled back into his room. Around him, the cabin gurgled. There was a rush of water and the soft sounds of the sleeping animals in the other room. He thought about how lonely it was going to be when he had to go back to his empty townhouse in Paris. It wasn't something he wanted to think about, but still a very real point of time in the future. He sighed.

Getting up, he leaned over the sink to look up at the sky. Already the stars were winking out of existence. The moon lingered, but there was a touch of color on the horizon which beckoned the new day. He could feel his chest tighten, the stress of his numbered days weighing down on him. Scrubbing at his face, he decided that he'd better try to catch a few more hours of sleep before the day officially began. He snagged the tabby as he passed through the living room and brought her up with him.

~MB~

That afternoon found the two immortals making their way around the lake on one of the pathways that had been cut through the forest. Tall trees threw their branches over the path, coating the path in shade. To their right, the ground dipped down quite suddenly and descended into the water. Robins hopped along ahead of them.

"What are you going to miss most about the cabin when we leave?" Machiavelli asked bumping his shoulder against Billy's by accident. He stuck his hands in his pant pockets to have something to do with them.

Billy shrugged. He had to give it a moment's thought before he answered. "I don't know. I had a lot of fun this summer. I liked the swimming a lot," he said, waggling his eyebrows at the Italian. "It's only going to keep getting better."

Machiavelli nodded, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Billy always was looking forward; it was what he liked about the American immortal. "I liked when we watched the Shining the first night. Even if it did scare me."

"I knew it scared you!" Billy crowed. He wilted a little at the look on Machiavelli's face. "Ah, right, not the point. Anyways, I liked the whole summer." They came to a fork in the path and the American immortal came to a halt. He looked over at teenager. "Which way do you want to go? If we go to the right, we loop around the lake again. Otherwise, we can head back to the cabin."

"Let's go around again," Machiavelli said. "We can pack afterwards."

The outlaw wandered over to the right. He could hear the high fluting of a thrush somewhere in the area. "You know what I was thinking we could do next week?" He sounded excited. Machiavelli looked at him questioningly. "There's a flying circus place in Minnesota where you can rent an aerobatic plane. We should do that." He nodded eagerly to the Italian's disbelieving look.

"An aerobatic plane? Those planes that do tricks?" _But those are scary_, he thought. "I guess we could," he said hesitantly. "But we're not going to be doing the flying are we?"

Billy shook his head and the gray eyed immortal felt better. "No, what usually happens is that they have a skilled driver in the back and then up to two passengers can sit in the seat in the front. I've done it a dozen or so times, it's a lot of fun." He touched Machiavelli's shoulder. "Safe, too."

The other immortal expelled some air with relief. "So are we stopping in Minnesota then? Before Philadelphia?"

"We're going to be going through a few states to get to Philly," Billy explained. "There's no reason why we can't make a few stops along the way."

"Which states are we going through?"

Billy scrunched his eyes up. He came to a halt as he seemed to tick off the states in his head. "Well, we've got almost all of Montana to get through, and then we're going through North Dakota, Minnesota, Wisconsin, and then there's just Illinois, Indiana, and Ohio, before we get to Pennsylvania."

"Oh, is that all," Machiavelli asked archly. "Are we going to be on the road for weeks?"

"No, we'll just be driving for most of the day for a couple of days. I looked it up on Google the other day. It takes 29 hours to get from here to Philly. We could technically get there in three days or so, but that wouldn't be much fun would it?" He looked over at Machiavelli as if to gauge his reaction. The Italian shook his head, thinking about how he got headaches every time he was in the car for long periods of time. "Yeah, so I thought we could break it up a bit. Oh, and I've got another house up in Thief River Falls, that's in Minnesota. We can stop there."

Machiavelli nodded. "Whatever it takes to not have to be in the car all day, every day."

"Oh yeah, you get car sick," Billy remembered. "See, I thought it was just Black Hawk's driving that had you ill the first few times. Okay, we'll definitely draw it out over a week. Plenty of stops."

"Do you have an extra bathing suit?" Machiavelli asked suddenly as they rounded another bend in the path. Billy looked a little thrown off, but he nodded. "I wanted to go swimming again before we leave. None of my suits are going to fit though."

"Sure, you can borrow one of mine. But the water might be pretty cold by now, it is September," Billy cautioned.

"Does that mean that you're not going to come with me?"

"Oh, no, I'll follow you in. I just might not stay long." Billy threw an arm around his shoulders. "It'll be fun. Who knows when we can go swimming again?"


	77. Chapter 77

Machiavelli couldn't deny that his body was now operating at full sexual potential. He felt increasingly horny as his body aged further, day by day, and this provided him with often embarrassing results. As the summer dwindled, his body was growing by leaps and bounds and with it his appetite for more adult ventures.

This was rather unfortunate for the Italian immortal as he was not legally old enough to have sex with adults in his current state, and morally, he felt that his expansive years put anyone that was really under the age of 18 at a disadvantage to him. This left him with no possible sexual outlets through which he could channel some of this new found energy.

This meant that he rediscovered his sexuality primarily when he showered in the early morning or at night after the others had retired to bed. Recently, he had rediscovered the joys of grinding into his bed, and so on an almost nightly basis, he lay on his stomach and thrust his hips down in quick, hard movements. There was a few times where he had to bite down on his fist to keep from making a sound.

He was reasonably sure that Billy had probably figured out what he was doing at a few different points of time, but luckily for him the American immortal chose to either ignore or not mention it. There were a couple of close calls, especially when they went swimming in the lake, but Machiavelli couldn't stop himself from engaging in this kind of behavior. Embarrassing as it was, it felt like his hormones were finally working with him to a positive effect, his own pleasure, and he couldn't bring himself to cut it short.

_I don't normally behave this way_, he assured himself the next morning after one particularly poignant session. Still, he wished there was a little more assurance that he wouldn't get caught and resigned himself to select times when he had a little more security.

Still, it became increasingly difficult for Billy to ignore his actions when they were staring him in the face. That particular morning, Billy came down to the kitchen to find Machiavelli stuffing his sheets into the washer. For a fraction of a second, the Italian stopped what he was doing, then the moment passed and he continued to shove his bed clothes in.

"Why the comforter too though?" Billy asked amicably, scooting past him towards the coffee maker. "Didn't the sheets do their job?"

Machiavelli tossed half a cup of laundry detergent in on top, along with fabric softener. "I got a bit enthusiastic last night," he admitted, turning slightly pink. He shuffled his feet. Billy didn't prompt him further, nor did he laugh, for which Machiavelli was very grateful. Instead the American just passed him a cup of coffee. "I'm not really in control of my body right now," the tactician continued, despite the lack of prompting.

Billy nodded, remaining uncharacteristically silent throughout the discussion. "I know," he said. "Your body will normalize. Give it some time."

"I think I'll be rubbed raw before that happens," Machiavelli whispered hoarsely, leaning in closer to the American. He stayed a solid shade of pink through the entire conversation. They sat down together on the couch in the living room, but Niccolò wouldn't look at him.

Billy did smile at that, though he covered his mouth with his hand. "Perhaps you should put some Vaseline on…," Billy trailed off, gesturing in the general direction of the Italian's midriff. "Watch a movie with me tonight. You don't do that kind of thing when I'm in the room."

Machiavelli took a big sip of his coffee and coughed. His face turned a darker shade of pink. "Maybe we should wash this too," he said, tugging the blanket off the back of the couch. He refused to look at the outlaw.

Billy considered this for a moment. "Ah," he said at last. "Yes, well. There's no real harm in what you're doing. Just don't do it in front of the girls." He rubbed his nose absently and heaved himself off of the couch. Instead he settled in front of the piano and began to play a quick piece, still conversing with the Italian. "You're really a blusher, did you know that, Mac?"

Machiavelli both shook his head and nodded. He stared fixedly at a picture on the wall opposite him. "Hmm," was his only response.

"Oh, I had forgotten to tell you this was coming up," Billy said, stopping his piano playing for a moment to pull something out of his back pocket. He handed a folded piece of paper to Machiavelli, nearly arching off of the piano bench in order to reach back far enough. The European immortal unfolded it and scanned the text. "It's the town's old home day coming up in two days. Want to go? The others were going to come along."

"What's an old home day?" Niccolò asked, coming to sit beside Billy.

Billy started up his playing again. "It's a thing they do, mostly in New England, I guess, where every year the town gets together to celebrate. The guy that I helped start this town with, Will Blancminster, he started up that tradition. See, he was originally from Vermont. Anyways, this town does it every year, is the point I'm trying to make."

"And you attend this regularly?" Machiavelli asked, looking over at Billy quizzically. He had to smile.

Billy nodded enthusiastically. "Why wouldn't you? A celebration for something you did? Plus they have rides."

"I can see that," Machiavelli said. He pointed at the flyer where it said 'rides' in big letters. He tilted his head. "Can people of our size ride on these rides?" he deliberately goaded the outlaw. He was rewarded by Billy's grimace, especially since both of them knew that the Italian was slowly getting taller than him.

"Yeah, you going to go on them with me?" Billy said, ignoring the jibe against his height. "We should go on all of them this time, even the scary ones. There's the Tornado and a Zipper and…"

Machiavelli waved his hands back and forth frantically. "Remember my propensity for throwing up."

"Oh, yeah," Billy remembered. "Well, we'll cross off the Tornado. But can we go on the Pirate Ship? That's just a rocking motion, really."

"How many rides are at this old home day?"

"A fair few," Billy said over his piano playing. After the first few notes, Machiavelli recognized the song as the Entertainer. "There's the Tilt-A-Whirl, we can go on that again, and a Ferris wheel, of course. Then there's the three that I mentioned before and the Scrambler. Then a bunch of other things. It'll be fun."

"I guess I'll go," Machiavelli agreed. "But I can't promise I'll go on all of the rides."

Billy smiled. He had effectively, won again, though the Italian might not see it right now. And truly, he had no intention of making the other immortal go on any ride that he wasn't comfortable with.

Machiavelli stomached rumbled. "Are we having breakfast soon? I'm getting hungry."

Billy checked his watch. "Mac, it's like half past eleven. The Flamels already went off to work. You slept in really late." He showed the Italian his watch, as the other immortal was giving him a very disbelieving look. "Perhaps you should curtail your nightly operations down a bit?" He laughed and ducked the pillow being tossed at him. "Okay, I'll get lunch going. You want chicken tenders or chili?"

"Chicken, please."

"Hey," Billy called, looking back at the Italian. "Scatty and I were going to go ride horses this afternoon. One last time, since I don't know when I'll get to ride again, now that we're going to the city. Want to come? We're going to go on some of the mountain trails."

"Sure," Machiavelli agreed hesitantly. It had been almost half a month since they had gone last. He wasn't sure he'd be any good at it.

"Great! I'm going to go find Scatty and then we can have lunch, head out." Billy headed out to the backyard, letting the door bang shut behind him. The Italian immortal could hear him whistling as he strode through the tall grass.

~MB~

"Hey, you got up alright," Billy said, smiling up at Machiavelli. "Good for you."

Niccolò nodded, carefully balancing on the saddle. He hung on to the horn watching his companions swing onto their horses easily and felt a twinge of jealousy. They made it look easy, but he had climbed onto his horse first so that if he had messed up nobody would witness it.

Billy stood up a little in his saddle, winking happily at the Italian. Settling back he turned his palomino around so that the horse swung in a wide circle. "Where are we going then?"

Scatty came to a halt on Machiavelli's other side. She pointed to the far end of the field they were moving through. "There. Want to race?" She answered Billy's question, but looked over at the Italian's face, watching for his answer. Machiavelli realized that Billy too, was waiting on his answer. He nodded tightly. "Alright," the Shadow said, a hint of determination undercutting her playful nature. "Then here we go." And she took off.

Billy whooped and swung his horse around so that he was facing the same direction she had headed off in. He almost didn't seem to touch down on the horse, balanced perfectly above it as the horse flew over the land. Too late, Machiavelli realized that he had been left in dead last. Squeezing his thighs together hard, he urged his horse to follow the others' progress.

As the horse sped to a strong gallop and the grass from the field began to whip by him, Machiavelli felt his last tendrils of fear fall away. He had to grin, feeling the wind behind him. Just when he was beginning to wonder if he'd ever catch up with the others, he rounded a bend and came upon them. They had been waiting for him apparently and he felt a surge of joy, deep inside him, knowing that they hadn't left him behind.

Laughing, he thundered by them, knowing they were skilled enough that they could catch up with him an instant. Sure enough, the thought hadn't even left his head yet before they were upon him again.

"And to think," Billy shouted over him. "We waited for him!"

"Some people are just inconsiderate!" Scatty yelled back.

"Are we or are we not having a race?" Machiavelli broke in, goading his horse forward. He stuck his tongue out at Billy, who made a rude gesture back to him. He snorted and looked back to the front. The horse responded easily under his touch. It made him feel especially alive. He pulled slightly on the reins of his horse, coming to a stop so that the others could catch up.

Billy got to him first, practically standing up in his saddle. He settled back, grinning at him. "What happened? You give up?"

"I simply realized we had failed to set a stopping point for our race," Machiavelli said smoothly.

"Uh huh. I'm sure that's it. Hey, watch this," Billy said. He took an aluminum can from his satchel and tossed it twenty feet to his left. Goading his horse into action, he cantered towards the can and swung down to pick it up off the ground. He grinned at the look at the Italian's face. "It's really nothing. Scatty can do it too, can't you?" he called to the Shadow. She gave a slight nod and Billy stuffed the can back in his satchel.

"That wasn't a full can was it?" Machiavelli asked, getting close to Billy again.

Billy shook his head. "Would have exploded. Yeah, I was very good at tricks on horses in my day. And shooting too," he said proudly. "With my six-shooter, I could toss a can up in the air and empty the clip into it before it hit the ground. True story." He exuberated a quiet pride, unable to stop smiling. Machiavelli loved him so much at that moment, it almost hurt.

They turned so that they were heading back towards the pathways which lead into the forest. Niccolò craned to look at Scatty. "Are you good with guns too?"

Scatty half shrugged. "I like closer combat weapons better." She grinned at him, her pointy teeth showing in a flash. "So are we going in here?"

Billy came to a close stop between the two of them. "Sure, you want to?"

They ducked under the tree line. Here, it was much cooler and the Italian shivered with the sudden drop in temperature. It took a minute for his eyes to adjust to the darker lighting. He looked around.

They'd never been this far away from the barn before. Machiavelli hadn't even known that these paths were over here until Billy had pointed them out to him. The trees were much bigger, more like the ones around the cabin. One oak tree towered over them. He craned his neck to see the top of it, but it retreated from sight and he got a bit dizzy. He swayed a little in his seat and he looked down again. Luckily, his horse was picking his own way down the path and the others weren't very far away.

"Where does this path lead?" he asked, following the others. He had to be careful to keep his horse from going off the path as the sides got rockier.

Billy pulled at his boots. "It just keeps going up a ways. We'll stop and turn around at some point." He patted his horse on the neck. "It's nice here, though. Isn't it?"

"It's cooler," Machiavelli commented.

Scatty looked over at him. "I keep forgetting you're Mediterranean."

Niccolò smiled. "Yeah, I like it warmer." He shivered slightly.

"Are you cold?" Billy took off his leather jacket and tossed it over to him. Machiavelli grabbed at it, afraid it would fall onto the ground. He put it on quickly, folding the collar down where it stuck up in the back. The leather was soft and worn, somewhat frayed around the cuffs. He mouthed his thanks at the American immortal.

They kept on the path for a while. Machiavelli could hear the other two ahead of him, talking, but he kept glancing around. The forest around them was very different, not only from Paris, but from his life in Florence. The world he had lived in for the past couple of centuries had been manicured; this world was almost the extreme opposite.

The Shadow and the Kid seemed to be enjoying the ride more than he was; he wa cold despite Billy's jacket. He supposed that this was the changing September weather disagreeing with him. Eventually, he had to ask Billy if they could turn around. The outlaw readily agreed, for which he was very grateful. He could tell that all this riding was going to make him sore in the morning. It seemed like his whole backside was bruised.

~MB~

"Alright, I'm going to bed," Billy said at almost midnight, that night. The Flamels had just retired an hour earlier and he couldn't stay awake any longer. He kissed Scatty on the cheek, handed her the remote, and stumbled to his feet. "I'm falling asleep in my chair. You should come to bed too, you look tired," he told the Italian.

Machiavelli looked up from where he had been messing around with the piano. "Okay," he agreed. He edged carefully off of the piano bench and slowly straightened his long legs out. He too, kissed the Shadow goodnight before trundling over to the stairs. "Uhh," he moaned pitifully. "Did you do this on purpose?" he asked Billy under his breath.

"Do what on purpose?" Billy asked cheerfully, making it to the top long before the Italian. He leaned on the banister and watched the other immortal's progress.

"Make me too sore to mess around at night," Machiavelli said tightly, reaching the top at long last.

Billy grinned. "Maybe. But not really. I just like riding horses," he admitted freely. "And I like being with you and Scatty. Next to Black Hawk, you're my best friends." He waggled his eyebrows and cupped Machiavelli under the chin for a minute. Letting go again, he turned the Italian around and gently pushed him into his bedroom. "Anyways, get some sleep. We're going to have to pack tomorrow. Goodnight."

"Goodnight."


	78. Chapter 78

"Okay, Mac, before we leave the cabin we really ought to pack up at least your old clothes and stuff. Is there anything you want to bring with you?" Billy asked, coming into the teenager's room. He came to stand beside the Italian where he was sitting at his desk.

"I was thinking about that. I've been making a list," Machiavelli considered carefully. He sighed. This whole process was making him sadder than he thought it would have. "I don't know. Are we going to get rid of the stuff we pack off?" Billy shook his head, absently and his heart lifted a little. "What are we doing with it then?"

"Mm, probably just put what we can in the closet, some stuff up in the attic. You know, just have it cleared up so we're not leaving a mess behind. It doesn't need to look like you were never here, we just need to put some of the big stuff away." Billy picked up a rubix cube and began to twist the sides around. "I usually box up my things in between houses. That way they don't get all dusty while I'm in different places."

That made sense to Machiavelli, but it still meant that he was going to have to choose between what to keep with him and what to leave behind. "Can we bring the chess set you got me?"

"Sure."

"And my model car," Niccolò decided, blushing a little, but determined to keep the red convertible with him. "Maybe a couple of my books… my suit…the toy knights and horses?" He looked up carefully at Billy. The Kid nodded. "And then I don't know what to keep. What are you going to bring with you? Besides clothes."

"Huh. I think I'm going to bring the pictures of my mother and you, I always bring my laptop with me, and then there's the seashell you gave me. Besides that, I don't know, a couple of other things."

"What seashell?"

"Don't you remember?" Billy frowned at him thoughtfully. "The day we spent on the beach? You gave me a shell. I kept it." He pulled it out of his front pocket and handed it to Machiavelli

"Oh. I don't remember that," Machiavelli admitted. The Italian took the shell from him and rubbed the side of it absently. He handed it back to the American immortal who carefully stowed it in his pocket again. He looked around the room. "Billy? Are we going to bring the Pup and Georgette with us when we go?"

Billy scratched the back of his head. He shook his head, his lips forming a silent no. "They wouldn't be very happy being on the road so much," he said gently. "The Flamels are going to watch over them until we have a more permanent home for you. Then we'll fly them over. Same with the piano, for right now."

Niccolò swallowed but nodded. "That makes sense," he said softly. "What do you have at your place in Philadelphia?"

"Mmm, the normal stuff. TV, some dvds, clothes, books. Food, we'll have to buy when we get there. Um, extra bedding too." Billy opened some boxes and sat down beside the Italian's bureau. He began to dump some of his older clothes, the ones that wouldn't fit anymore, into the box. "Oh, Mac, remember this?" He pulled out a small t-shirt that had a tie and suspenders printed on it. Billy grinned at him and put his face in it, feeling it for a minute, before he seemed to get embarrassed. He folded it messily and tossed it in the box. "You were so cute."

"Seems like a while ago now," Machiavelli commented. The grey eyed teenager looked at all the stuff around them. He sighed. "You're better at this than I am."

"What? Packing up? I guess I have more experience with it. I've been moving around my entire life." Billy seemed cheerful enough, but Machiavelli had to wonder if all that moving had taken a toll on him over time.

"That must have been difficult," he said gently. He pulled open his closet and began to put some of the old clothing into one of the other boxes.

"Well, we had to do it for my mother. I didn't mind as long as I had her, but after she died, it did wear me down a little." Billy pushed the full box against the wall. "I kept going back to my stepfather for help, but he didn't want me in his life. Eventually, after I became immortal, I realized I was going to have to take care of myself."

Machiavelli nodded. "I got used to living alone, but I've never really liked it. I liked having Dagon in my life. He was my friend and my only companion." He looked out the window. "It's going to be strange to live along again."

"Well, you don't have to do that until you want to," Billy said soothingly. "And hey, we're kind of family now, aren't we? At the very least, we're friends."

"I just miss my family," Niccolò said very softly. He didn't want to sound like he was whining, but leaving the cabin was reminding him of how he had been forced to leave his wife and children behind when he had 'died' all those years ago. Suddenly, his life seemed very uncertain.

He got up to tidy his desk, but Billy snagged him by the arm. Machiavelli had just gone through another one of his growth spurts, making him tower over all four of the other immortals in the cabin. He was now not quite his old height, but far closer to it. Giving a surprisingly strong tug, he pulled the Italian down beside him, where he slung an arm around the boy's shoulders. "I know I can't take their place, Mac, but I love you too, now. You're going to be just fine."

Machiavelli smiled. "Thank you," he said, leaning his forehead against Billy's. Billy patted him on the back and pushed him up.

"I think you're going to like it in Philadelphia," the outlaw said, shoving the full boxes into the closet. He threw himself on the boy's bed, stretching out as he spoke. Machiavelli wrinkled his nose and pulled off Billy's boots, worrying after a bit of dirt that had rubbed off onto the spread. Billy seemed unaware of anything being wrong. "I got a brownstone back before that neighborhood was actually a nice one," he laughed, "and it's not a bad place. Plus there's a lot of attractions I want to bring you to see. There's the Philadelphia Zoo and the Mutter Museum, that place is weird and kind of creepy, but cool."

"And you were going to teach me how to drive," Machiavelli reminded him gently.

"I was and I will. Just like with the horses. We'll take it slow. Speaking of horse riding, did you sleep through the night last night?" Billy asked laughingly. He grinned at the Italian and waggled his eyebrows suggestively. The Italian was temporarily confused and then he understood.

"What? Oh yeah, I was very sore from the horse rides all day," Niccolò said, sounding almost a little bitter. He frowned into the closet. "And I thought we agreed to never speak of this again? I'm working hard to tamp down my nightly… activities. You could support me."

"Tamp down your nightly activities?" The Kid chuckled from where he was lying on the Italian's bed. "We just talked about this yesterday."

"And every day is progress," he said tartly.

Billy continued to laugh and Machiavelli had to smile too, although he still felt some coils of embarrassment at the choice in conversation. "It's okay, Mac," Billy said, sounding consoling. "I'm working on my own progress," he admitted breezily.

"Yeah, I bet you are." The Italian's quick retort got Billy laughing again.

Billy glanced over at him. "Hey, Macaroni, you want me to make lunch now?"

Machiavelli looked at him disapprovingly, shaking his head ever so slightly. "No," he proclaimed firmly. "No to the name? Or lunch?" Billy interrupted. "To the name," the Italian said firmly. "That's the worst name you've come up with yet. And you called me Mac-A-Whack one time." He paused. His stomach grumbled. "But I am kind of hungry, yes."

Billy rolled off the bed and stretched to his full height, which was admittedly a couple of inches less than the Italian at this point. He cracked his neck, and proceeded out onto the landing and down the stairs. Machiavelli trailed after him, lightly stepping behind Billy's footfalls.

Billy ducked through the pantry, glancing around at their stock of food. "How hungry are you, Mac?" The Italian shrugged, rocking his hand slightly. "Well, let's see," Billy said, ruffling the back of his hair. "We're going to have Monterey chicken tonight, so for lunch I guess we'll just have something light. I can make you taquitos and Spanish rice?"

Machiavelli considered, then agreed. He pulled himself up onto the counter so that he was out of the way while Billy prepared the meal. He watched the American immortal with some interest as the man began to throw together different ingredients into the skillet without consulting seemingly any recipe. "Where'd you learn to cook like this?"

"Living in New Mexico, I guess. I was very big there, kind of a folk hero," Billy said, a touch of pride in his voice. He looked over at the dark haired man and flashed a grin. "They called me El Chivato."

"That museum tour said that you were very popular among the Hispanic population," Machiavelli commented, handing him the spoon that Billy indicated.

"Well, growing up in New Mexico, I learned the language like a native. And languages have always been my strong suit." Billy stirred the rice. "I liked going to the bailes- that's dances- and mixing with the locals. Most other white people didn't do that, so I guess they thought I was special."

"You are special," Machiavelli commented quietly.

Billy grinned. "I was also very popular with the ladies. I was a bit of a dog. I had a querida at every town I visited." He went to ruffle his hair, but thought better of it. "I promise you, I've matured a little since then," he called, getting something from the pantry.

"I would hope so."

Billy poked his head in. "Can you give the stuff on the stove a stir?"

"Sure." Machiavelli got up and worked over the stove. He scraped the bottom of the pan carefully. The spices in the food reminded him of his American friend, hot and spicy, and he had to turn his face away so that Billy wouldn't see the expression on his face. "Hey, Billy? When's the first time you had sex?" Machiavelli asked curiously.

Billy looked up quickly. "What?" he asked, laughing nervously. He rolled the taquitos and threw them on a pizza pan, but didn't answer the question, something Niccolò picked up on right away.

_This has all the makings for a funny story_, he mused, sensing Billy's discomfort. The Italian immortal squirmed his way to the edge of the counter. "I asked," he repeated with a sly grin, "when you first had sex."

Billy actually blushed. The teenager could see a darker flush creep up his neck, easily because the outlaw bent down to put the pan into the oven, making a big fuss of putting the pan all the way in. "Uhm, when I was 15," he hedged finally.

"Did you enjoy it?"

Billy moved his shoulder blades around like he was uncomfortable. It only served to further spike Machiavelli's interest. He had thought this would be something Billy would want to brag about, but the cowboy clearly wanted to separate himself from the conversation at hand. Alarm bells were beginning to sound in his head, but he couldn't stop himself. The American immortal leaned back and gave him a very small smile. "I suppose so. It felt good…"

The Italian immortal put a hand on the outlaw's forehead so that Billy couldn't look away. They looked in each other's eyes for a moment. Billy was the first to blink. "It was the younger sister of one of the matron's I lived with after my mother died," he hastened to explain. "And she told me that she would teach me how to be a man."

"How old was she?" Machiavelli asked, growing serious. He stroked the outlaw's forehead once and then removed his hand, conscious that with the topic at hand, Billy might not welcome the physical touch.

Billy sat back up again. He shrugged and opened another box and began to load it up. "I think she was 25. Anyways, I lived at a lot of different houses after my mother died. I wasn't there very long. And it's been a while since I've thought about her, Mac."

Machiavelli pushed up immediately. Scrambling over the edge, he sat beside Billy. "She raped you."

Billy looked up sharply. "Oh, I don't think that Mac. I never said no."

"You didn't have to," Machiavelli retorted. "You were just a little boy," he said, thinking of his sons, of Ludovico, Pierro, and Bernardo, who he had seen reach that age, and Guido who had not reached that age before he died. There was a strong feeling in the pit of his stomach and he felt, for the first time in months, like a full adult, propelled by his sense of indignation.

"Mac, you're not that much older," Billy laughed. "And I've been strongly told not to call you a little boy anymore." He kissed the side of Machiavelli's face.

"Yeah, but Billy-"

"I'm going to set the table."

Machiavelli watched him move around the kitchen and decided to let the conversation go at this point. "Mr. Bonney, I want to pursue this conversation further at some point."

"Sure," Billy agreed reluctantly. He brightened. "But not now. Otherwise, you'll have to tell me about the time you were tortured. It's only fair."

"Okay."

Billy drummed his fingers on the countertop. There was a moment of silence, then he tugged Machiavelli off the counter. He pushed the Italian into one of the seats at the table. "I miss my mother," he said suddenly. "Just like you miss your family. I've always wished she had lived longer. I don't think I would have turned out the way I did."

"You needed someone to look out for you," Machiavelli agreed. "As for me, I was foolish. I threw away a wonderful family."

"You said that Atem didn't tell you until after you were immortal that you'd have to leave them. That wasn't your fault," Billy said defensively. He plated their food and carried it over to the table. There was a pained expression on his face. "Sometimes I think it was good my mom didn't live long. She never had to see me go downhill."

"You're a good man now."

"So are you."

The wind outside rustled the leaves. Machiavelli could feel the cool autumnal air coming off of the lake and he took a bite of food. Warmth rushed in. "Do you remember," he asked suddenly, "what we said before about seeing my wife again? How we thought Perenelle might be able to conjure her up? Maybe we could do that with your mother too. Show her how good you turned out in the end."

Billy rubbed at his face. A slow smile spread over his features. "I'd like that," he admitted shyly. "Maybe we can ask her tonight at dinner."

Machiavelli nodded. He felt more at peace now. "Hey, Billy. If the water's not too cold, do you want to go swimming this afternoon? One last time? We're almost done the packing."

"Sure."


	79. Chapter 79

AN: Not sure why the text is always messed up, but hope this fixes it. As the story comes to a close, I'm looking for some suggestions on the more adult things Machiavelli and Billy can do once they're both legally adults. Is everyone still enjoying the story? Let me know your comments and suggestions! Thanks!

~MB~

"Okay, Mac, I think the best thing to do is just to dive in," Billy said, edging closer to the end of the dock. "If we really think about it we might realize the water's way too cold and not do it."

"Billy, now that we're out here, I'm thinking this might have been a bad idea," Machiavelli said, wrapping his arms around himself. He stuck his hands in his armpits. "Maybe we should just go inside, you could make us some tea, and I'll wrap myself in the blanket on the couch. How about that?" He looked at Billy hopefully.

"Nope, I think we should just dive in. I'll go first." Billy backed up almost the whole length of the dock and leaped off the end. Machiavelli tried to push himself back before- but, too late- the American immortal hit the water. An enormous splash of water drenched the Italian. Seconds later, Billy surfaced again. "It's freezing in here!"

"It's freezing out here," Niccolò called back, jumping from foot to foot. Giving it up as a lost cause, he sat at the edge of dock and slipped in.

His heart leapt into his throat. The water was practically icy. He closed the distance between Billy and him in two swift waterlogged movements. He wrapped his arms around Billy's torso, desperate for some of the warmth that the American usually possessed. "It's like the Titanic out here."

"Um, Mac," Billy said shakily. He gently pushed the Italian away from him. "Maybe it's for the best that we don't swim so close to each other. Not when it's this cold."

"Right, sorry." Machiavelli dogpaddled out a little ways. "And that was just because it was cold," he called over his shoulder. "Really, really cold. I'm sorry I grabbed you."

"It's okay," the American said, looking bemused. He swam some laps. "It's not so bad, now that we're used to it, right?" He floated some and looked at Machiavelli winningly. "Right?"

"No, it's cold."

"You're right, it's fucking cold," Billy said, heading for shore. He pulled himself up on the dock and helped give Machiavelli a boost. "Well, we gave it a shot. It's just not summer anymore."

"Technically, it's still summer for another week," Niccolò said thoughtfully. He saw the expression on Billy's face. "Okay, but it was too cold," he agreed. They walked all the way up to the cabin, the long grass trailing behind them.

"We gave it a shot, that's all that matters," Billy said cheerfully. He held the door open for the other immortal and followed him up the stairs. Grabbing two towels from the bathroom, he tossed one to the Italian and proceeded into his room. "What are we going to do for the rest of the afternoon?"

"Stay warm!"

Billy laughed. Climbing out of his swim shorts, he quickly toweled off and wandered over to his bureau. He pulled a pair of sweat pants out, then a pair of shorts and socks which he threw on the bed. Thinking about it, he also pulled a sweatshirt out of his closet which had the old Adidas logo on it in faded printing. He scrambled into his clothes and crossed the room to shut his window. "It's getting colder in here, too," he called. "Hey, where'd you go?" He asked poking his head into the Italian's bedroom.

"I'm down here!" Machiavelli called from the living room.

Billy came down the stairs. "Did I really take that long? Hey, Scatty," he greeted her happily as he walked into the kitchen. He took the lid off of the pan on the stove. "Wow, you even started the water without me." He got a trio of mugs down from the cabinet as he waited for the water to boil. "Okay, people, we've got a couple of hours before the Flamels come home. Tell me something I don't know."

"Jean-Jacques Rousseau was obsessed with being spanked," Scatty said cheerfully.

Both the men craned to look at her. She nodded happily. Billy took a careful sip from his mug, almost put the cup down and then turned the mug around in his hands instead. He paused, unsure how to proceed. "Scatty, how do you know this?"

"He used to chase women around with his pants pulled down, trying to get them to spank him," Scatty said nonchalantly. "He tried with me once." She took a sip. "Didn't end well for him."

Billy punched Machiavelli on the shoulder as he passed them. "And we thought we were bad."

"I met Rousseau one time," Machiavelli said, sounding scandalized. "I thought he was a bit chauvinistic, but this…" He coughed slightly and took a sip from the mug Billy offered him.

"I know very little about Rousseau," Billy admitted openly.

Niccolò made a face. "He was a famous writer and philosopher, but not a very good human being, even to judge against me. He wrote books about how to raise children, but ultimately sent all five of his children to orphanages. I had no respect for him."

"That's cause you were a good father."

"Not a great father, but better than him, at least," he finally conceded.

Scatty patted the Italian on the back. "I bet you like being spanked, don't you big guy?" Machiavelli sputtered, getting hot water in his nose and spitting a copious amount of it on the coffee table. He shook his head frantically, turning a delicate shade of pink.

"Uh uh. No. None of that," he protested sharply.

"I think you protest a little too much," Scatty jibed happily. "I think you really like it." Machiavelli shook his head, mouthing wordlessly at her.

"Well, that's not really what I expected to hear. None of that. But definitely something I didn't know," Billy concluded. He stretched out on the couch opposite the Shadow and Machiavelli and stretched so that his joints popped and cracked. He grinned at the Shadow in the soft fading light. "You going to miss us Scatty?"

"No."

The Kid laughed at her sharp response. "You will. Won't she, Mac?" Niccolò nodded seriously. He reached a hand out of his blanket to grab her hand. "I'm going to miss you," he said sincerely. "Me, too. I'll miss you loads," Billy chimed in. He rolled over on his stomach and took a sip from his hot chocolate.

"Oh, stop," Scatty protested. "It's not like we're never going to see each other again."

Machiavelli pushed up in his seat where he'd been slouching. A new thought had just struck him. "Billy? How are the Flamels going to go to work if we're taking the car?"

"Oh," Billy groaned. "I didn't think of that." He sat up and pushed at his forehead. He squinted and rocked his head around. Machiavelli and Scatty watched him expectantly. "I guess," Billy hesitated, weighing his words, "we could go lease a car for them. You know how to drive a little," he said to Scatty. "You can drive it back from the dealership."

"Are we going now?" Scatty sighed. She got to her feet. "Alright, I'll put my shoes on. Come on, kid."

"Oh, but I'm comfy," Machiavelli complained. He snuggled in deeper to the blanket and blinked owlishly at the two American immortals. They looked down at him and he untucked his chin. "Okay, I'll put real pants on," he allowed. "But if I have to get dressed, so do you."

"I was just going to go like this," Billy said, scooping up his keys. He deflated under the Italian's stern look. "But I'll put on jeans. I love them."

Both the other immortals were in the Thunderbird by the time that Billy came out. He slid in behind the wheel and pulled around. He whistled cheerfully. "What kind of car do you think we should get them?" he called over the sound of the wind.

"Well, it's just going to be the three of us," Scatty called from the back seat. "So we just need something small. How about a Fit?"

Billy made a face. "Honda's aren't American made."

"Is that important?" Machiavelli cut in.

"Of course," Billy yelped at the same time that Scatty shook her head at him. "You've got to support your local economy," the Kid defended himself. "We could get them a Ford Fiesta. That's small and fuel efficient."

"Billy," Scatty sighed. "I don't really care what kind of car you get. Just as long as it has wheels and moves."

"How about an Fiat 124?" Machiavelli chimed in. Scatty looked nonplussed, but both Billy and the Italian looked at each other and chuckled. "See, the Fiat 124 rusted through every time it rained…" he tried to explain, his voice trailing off. "You don't care about any of this, do you?"

"Nah." Scatty leaned back in her seat.

"Here's the place," Billy chimed in. He swung in to a spot by the building. They all got out of the car, the American in the lead. The other two leaned back as Billy flagged down a salesperson.

Moments later, they watched, a little stunned, as Billy somehow ran circles around the salesman. He not only cut the monthly payment by forty percent, but he upgraded the car they were aiming for. Machiavelli's mouth formed a small o as they watched with increasing disbelief.

Finally, Billy strolled over. He handed the keys to Scatty with a grin and a wink. "I've a lot of experience with car salesmen, having put together a lot of cars in my time," he said as explanation to the looks on their faces.

"Ah," Scatty said, snagging the keys. "Well, that explains it. I'll meet you at the cabin, boys."

"It's lucky you've known that guy who runs the auto dealership," Machiavelli said, watching Scatty climb into the little car. "Otherwise, I don't think we'd have been able to get a car right away. Especially paying in cash like we do. That kind of sticks out."

"True," Billy sighed. "So, what are we doing tonight?"

"Besides dinner? I don't know, I guess we could watch a movie," Machiavelli said hesitantly. "Hey, Billy?" The American looked over at him before focusing on the road again. "Are you nervous about the thing with Perenelle? What she might say?"

Billy coughed. "A bit, yeah."

Machiavelli waited, but that was all the American apparently had to say. "You can't give me a little more to work with?"

The Kid looked over at him. "I'm afraid she won't be able to do it for us and I'll never get to see my mother again. And I'm afraid that it'll be too sad to say to goodbye to her again," he admitted after a moment's hesitation.

They didn't speak again until Billy pulled the car into the cabin's carport. Scatty pulled in next to them. "It was lucky we had the car today, come to think of it," Billy called to her as they were all getting out of the car. He accidentally walked into the rail of the porch and groaned, rubbing at his stomach. "Ouch. Normally, the Flamels drive it in."

"Why'd we have it, then?"

"Well, I thought we might need to pick some things up for dinner, but we've got everything." Billy looked at his watch, still massaging his belly. "I should go pick them up in about a half hour."

~MB~

"So do you like working at the bookstore?" Billy asked the Flamels, buttering a roll.

Nicholas nodded. "The original owners have completely withdrawn from the business now, so it's just Perenelle and me now, just like it used to be. I think we've always been happiest working at our bookshops," he said, smiling at his wife.

She smiled back. "By the way, Billy, we found that book you were looking for. I left it on the coffee table."

"You found Steven King's Just After Midnight," Billy exclaimed. "Great!"

Machiavelli stuffed a piece of chicken in his mouth. He elbowed the American immortal, not so gently. _Ask them_, he implored. Billy winced, rubbing ribs. _I will_, he mouthed back.

The two Flamels were talking to Scatty about the new car in the driveway. Billy let the Shadow describe the various features without breaking in. He made a motion to the Italian to eat his white gravy mashed potatoes.

"Hey, Perenelle," Billy broke in finally when there was a lull in the conversation. The Frenchwoman made eye contact with him, focusing all of her attention on him. He gulped. Giving a small smile, he started. "Well, Mac and I were thinking- and obviously, this isn't the best time, of course- but, well…"

"Nicely done," Machiavelli told him, patting his hand. The Italian leaned forward. "We were wondering how your gift with ghosts worked exactly."

Perenelle blinked in rare surprise. "Why?"

Billy fiddled with his fork. "We were wondering if you could contact specific people, or if was just kind of, well, random."

She leaned back, thinking about it carefully. "I suppose to some extent I can choose who I want to interact with. It's just a matter of focusing. But I usually can only access spirits wherever they're resting."

"So, like, where they were buried?" Billy asked curiously.

Perenelle shrugged, tiny frown lines forming between her eyebrows. "Sometimes, but not always. For instance, de Ayala wasn't buried on Alcatraz, but he loved it so much that his spirit went back there after he died. So in some cases, it appears to be wherever the person was most content."

"Interesting," Machiavelli said, shoving food in his mouth.

The Frenchwoman looked at the two of them shrewdly. "Who were you thinking of contacting?" Scatty and Nicholas kept quiet, watching the three of them interact.

The Kid hesitated. "His wife," he said, indicating his young companion. "And my mother." He coughed. "I understand that this is all very difficult and if it's something that you can't do it's fine, but… Ah, forget it."

Perenelle put a hand up, stopping him. "I'm not turning you down, I just need to know if this is something I could do." She clasped Billy's hand, rubbing the top of his hand softly. "You've been thinking about this for some time. Why didn't you mention it before now?"

Billy shrugged. "We're on the run. Obviously there are greater concerns right now. Not getting caught. Keeping Mac safe." Next to him, the Italian looked over at him. "So, we kind of pushed it back a bit. But now that we're leaving, I wanted to ask you before we're separated."

Perenelle glanced at her husband. "Well, I can't promise that I can bring them to you unless we can find them, but if I can, I will."

"Good, well, right now it's in our best interest to stay under the radar," Billy said. "Otherwise, our masters will find us." He indicated Machiavelli and himself. He smiled. "I think I finally learned my lesson after all my years of being an outlaw. That means staying away from known places."

"That's right, you weren't very good at that, where you?" Machiavelli asked, tapping his wrist. "Isn't that how they caught you originally? You kept going back to Fort Sumter."

"Well, to be fair, Paulita Maxwell was pregnant with my last daughter there. I had to take care of her," Billy defended himself quietly.

"Well, anyways, we're just asking if you would consider doing it some time," Niccolò ended. His gray eyes searched the Frenchwoman's face. There was an unreadable glint to her eyes that he wondered after.

Perenelle blinked, then smiled. "Well, when the time is right, I will certainly try."

"Thanks." Next to him, Machiavelli mirrored his gratitude.

Scatty had been whispering something in Nicholas' ear. As their conversation came to an end, she leaned away from him. "Well, dinner was good, Billy. Even if I didn't have the meat."

Billy smiled. "Who's going to do the cooking when I'm gone?"

"Probably me," Nicholas indicated.

The Kid looked over at Machiavelli. "Did you like it?" The European immortal nodded, leaning back in his chair. "Good. I also made brownies. They have dark chocolate in them," Billy said happily. "We can have them with ice cream."

"Oh," Machiavelli groaned. "You're going to make us all fat," he said, struggling to his feet. He helped Scatty up and they headed for the living room.

Billy caught him around the waist on his way over. He squeezed the Italian's thin hip. "Yeah, you be fat."

"I have a frame that I want to maintain," Machiavelli said defensively, settling next to Scatty on the love seat. He cuddled next to her, wrapping his arms around her shoulders.

"What are we watching?" Nicholas asked, sitting on the couch.

"The Sixth Sense," Billy called from the kitchen. He came in with Perenelle, carrying two bowls in his hands, and cradling a third in the crook of his arm. "Great movie. Have you ever seen it?" he asked Machiavelli in an undertone. The Italian shook his head, reaching for the bowl with the biggest brownie in it. "Ah, then I'll keep quiet."


	80. Chapter 80

AN: As always, comments make me happy. Have a great day!

"So you packed all of the stuff in the car last night?"

Billy leaned onto the counter. "Actually, I packed it this morning. Are you going to get used to normal sleeping hours again, or are you just going to sleep until noon every day?"

Machiavelli spit out some of his tea. "It's noon?"

"No, I'm just kidding." Billy handed him a napkin. "Well, we plan on spending the entire day at the old home day and I didn't want to pack at night, so…" He shrugged.

Niccolò continued to eat his fruit. "Well, I would have fallen asleep earlier, but you decided to show me that horror show right before I fell asleep." He shivered. Last night, he had nearly jumped out of his skin at some of the more scary moments of the film.

Perenelle came in the back door, Scatty close behind her. "Where's Nicholas?" Billy asked, handing the Frenchwoman a cup of coffee. She took a sip from the cup before answering. "He just jumped in the shower," she said. "He'll be ready soon."

"Alright, I'm going to put some waters in the trunk and then we'll be ready to go."

Machiavelli put his bowl in the sink. "There's Nick right now. I'll help you with the waters."

"I'm going to get in the car," Scatty said, following the two guys out.

They decided to let the Flamels take the front seat of the new car, the other three immortals squishing into the back. They decided to put Scatty in the middle, as she was the smallest of the three of them at this point. The teenaged Machiavelli was a few inches taller than Billy, who was maybe half a foot taller than Scathach.

Getting into the car proved more difficult than they had originally anticipated. "Ooh, sorry Scatty," Billy apologized, accidentally hitting her with his elbow. He put a careful hand on her shoulder as he buckled in, being careful where he put his other hand. "Here, give me yours and I'll get you too."

"Ah, before you do that, maybe I should buckle mine," Machiavelli cut in from her other side. Scatty leaned into Billy to give the other immortal a chance. "This car is pretty small in the back." He groped around on the seat for his belt buckle receiver and ended up ghosting the back of his hand on the underside of the Shadow's thigh. "Sorry! Maybe I'll just ride over without the seatbelt on."

"Nope, you'll put it on," Billy called over her.

"Here, I'm tired of this debate," Scatty said. She scooted over and sat on Billy's lap. "What? Now you can see the receiver and I don't have you feeling up my ass."

"That wasn't on purpose," Machiavelli protested. He snapped it into place and the Shadow moved over again. She buckled up.

"I know, honey," she consoled him. She patted him on the knee, unable to get her arm up around his shoulder. "I was just teasing you."

"Oh, good, here are the Flamels," Billy said, peering out the window. "I hope they'll roll down my window."

"Can't you do that when they turn the car on?"

"No. Stupid child controls." Billy grumbled a little under his breath. He smiled winningly into the rear view mirror when the two oldest immortals got into the front seat. "Miss Perenelle? It's kind of hot back here. Could you?" He mimed rolling down the window.

"What's wrong? Oh, sure," she agreed, complying.

"What are you going to do when we get there?" Machiavelli asked Scatty softly. He leaned on her shoulder, feeling the warm sunlight play on his face. "Are you going on the rides with us?"

"I don't know," Scatty said, rubbing his knee absently.

"I thought you were always sure of everything," Billy joined in. "Come on the rides with us," he cajoled.

"Maybe."

The Italian leaned forward. "What about you?" he asked the Flamels. He strove to use the last of his residual childhood cuteness. "Please?"

Nicholas twisted in his seat to see the Italian. "I'll go on with you, sure. But not the Twister." Niccolò shook his head in agreement. "My sentiments exactly," he said, shooting a look over at Billy.

The outlaw chose to ignore that comment. "We're getting close," he said, leaning his head out the window. In front of them, they could see the tops of some of the taller rides, blossoming into view. Perenelle drove down Main Street and turned on one of the side streets, following Billy's instructions. They parked in a grassy field.

"Wow," Machiavelli said, getting out of the car. "It's loud."

Billy got out of the other side of the car. He bent down to help the Shadow out. "I like it," he said happily.

Nicholas and Machiavelli were already moving towards the rides, so Billy slipped an arm around Perenelle's waist and rested one on the small of Scatty's back. "We'd better move if we're going to keep up with them."

"I've been thinking about your mother and Niccolò's wife," Perenelle told him as they followed the other two through the crowd.

"Yeah?" Billy asked cautiously.

"I was thinking that if we were going to find them, you and Niccolò should really start to think about the places they were most emotionally attached to. Where you think they might have come back to," Perenelle listed thoughtfully. Billy relaxed. He nodded.

"I could do that. Though to be honest, I'm not entirely sure where we'd find my mother. I loved her so, but there was so much I didn't know about her." He started to say something else, but Machiavelli ran up to him.

"Billy! There's a Tilt-A-Whirl, here, too. Want to go on with me?" He looked over at Scatty. "Come with us," he urged.

"Oh, okay," Scatty hedged, looking back at the Flamels.

"We're going to look around," Nicholas called. He took Perenelle's hand.

The others headed for the line. Billy had an arm on Machiavelli's back, causing several people to give the two immortals funny looks. They relaxed when Scatty caught up to them. "People are looking at us," Machiavelli mentioned in an undertone.

"I know," Billy acknowledged. "I don't know what they think we're doing. You still look like a teenager."

"It's hard to say if they're looking at us cause they think we're homosexual or because they think you're a pedophile."

"Why can't I just be your big brother," Billy queried, talking out of the corner of his mouth. "People are too suspicious."

"Well, so much for not drawing attention," Scatty said frankly. "Here," she said. Standing on her tiptoes, she caught Machiavelli's mouth in a brief, but surprisingly tender kiss. "That should confuse them for a while."

"Thanks," Machiavelli touched his lips, trying not to look as stunned as he felt. They all stepped forward as the line moved. Billy tapped Scatty on the shoulder. "Not that I'm complaining, but why him, not me?"

"If I had kissed you," Scatty said quietly. "It would still look like you're dating a teenager."

"True." Billy smiled, his grin spreading across his face like wildfire. "It's funny. I'm hardly ever the oldest in the group. I like this."

"Congratulations," Scatty said tartly. The outlaw laughed.

"You're still technically the youngest. And people are going to have to get used to two men spending time together," Machiavelli said harshly, scanning the crowds. "It's my understanding that your country's just made it legal to get married to someone of your own sex."

"It's still going to take people time to catch up," Billy said soothingly. "Opinions don't change overnight."

"They're going to have to."

Billy looked over at the other man as they got on the ride. Once again, they let Scatty sit in the middle, Billy thanking the man who secured their fastenings. Scatty patted Machiavelli's arm. "I wouldn't have thought you'd be so supportive of gay rights. As old as you are, I expected you to be a bit more conservative."

"Homosexual relationships were actually just as common back then as they are now," he told her. "Less of a big deal, actually."

Billy started to ask something, but a buzzer sounded and the ride began to roteate. "We shouldn't have put you in the middle," he shouted instead. "You're going to get smushed!" Machiavelli couldn't help laughing from her other side. The force of the ride pushed him up close to the Shadow.

After they got off the ride, they looked around for the Flamels, but couldn't find them, so they continued up the path. Finally, they decided to go on the Scrambler. Luckily, all three of them were quite skinny, or they would have never fit in the seat.

"I'll sit on the outside this time," Billy said.

The Italian especially liked this ride. Their car swung in its own circle, while the entire ride rotated independently. He could feel the pit of his stomach drop down and he dizzily wondered what it would be like to get kissed whilst on this ride. He struggled to banish the thought. "I wish the rides lasted longer," he said as they got off.

"Me, too," Billy agreed. He looked around. "Okay, what other ride takes three people."

"How about the Twister?" Machaivelli called, stopping in front of said ride.

"I thought you weren't going to go on this one?"

"It looks fun." He glanced over at Scatty. "What do you think?"

"Oh, you're more likely to get sick than I am," she said airily. The men followed her, a small grin spreading on the outlaw's face that others couldn't help but look at. He ducked his head.

After that ride, they decided to take a break. Billy pointed out a face paiting station to the European immortal but Niccolò scoffed, to the outlaw's great amusement. He bought two burgers and a thing of fries for Scatty.

"Ah, you remembered that I like them well done," Machiavelli noted with appreciation.

"Course," Billy said, stuffing his own burger in his mouth. "There's the Flamels. Hey!" He waved them over. "What have you been doing?"

"We went on a couple of rides," Perenelle told him, sitting next to Machiavelli.

"Oh, yeah, which ones?"

"The Ferris wheel, the Himalaya, the bumper cars," Perenelle listed off.

"How big is this thing?" Machiavelli wondered out loud. "One town puts this on?" he asked Billy in disbelief. On Billy's other side, Nicholas shook his head. He explained how an information booth they had passed had detailed the fair's funders. Apparently, several towns had banded together to put it on, aware of the positive implications for their economies.

After lunch, they all headed back towards the rides. They all went on the bumper cars. Perenelle was surprisingly brutal, getting all of them at some point, especially Machiavelli who was fairly unskilled at driving even this small car. He was, in short, a sitting duck out there.

From there, they went on several rides. Machiavelli begged the outlaw to go on the Tilt-a-Whirl two more times. After some extensive wheedling, the Shadow finally managed to convince Machiavelli to go on the Zipper. "I can't believe we're doing this," he said repeatedly as they moved closer to the ride.

"You can still change your mind."

"No, I'll be okay." But he forced himself to breathe in and out when it was their turn to get into their cage. He got in first, handing her the seat belt.

"You sure?"

"I'm okay,'' he said again as the door to their compartment was shut and locked. "I'm okay. Scatty? I'm not okay." His chant changed as the ride lurched into movement and rose ten feet in the air.

"We can still probably get off."

"No, I'm okay." The ride rose another ten feet and stopped again. "No, I'm not okay. What are they doing?"

"Well, they have to let people on," Scatty pointed out reasonably, grabbing his hand. "You'll be okay."

Machiavelli nodded. He hung on to her hand as their compartment flipped over. "I'm okay. Everything's fine."

Scatty was a little inclined to laugh at him when they finally got off the ride. He stumbled off as if they hadn't been on dry land for days. She followed him over to the others as he padded very carefully over. "Are you alright?" Billy asked him, grabbing his shoulder. Machiavelli nodded, but seemed very reluctant to open his mouth.

"It was a little scary for him," Scatty said cheerfully. "So I guess he won't be going on the Twister with us."

Billy patted him on the shoulder. "Why don't you stay here on solid ground for a little bit? Scatty and I are going to go on the Twister now. Maybe that'll exercise out her need for adrenaline." He grinned at the red headed girl.

Perenelle slipped an arm through Machiavelli's. "Come on, mon petit, I'll buy you a fried dough."

He allowed her to lead him away. "Good. Maybe then we can get dinner?" he asked hopefully. "I'm starving."

"We could always go to a restaurant," Nicholas mentioned, following them to where a church group was minding the concession stand. "After they get off the ride of course."

~MB~

They decided after the restaurant to ride a couple more rides before heading back to the cabin. Night was already beginning to descend upon them, the days getting shorter now that they were moving into crisp September.

The last ride they went on before they went home was the Ferris wheel. The wheel turned slowly, lit up in cotton candy colors against the ever darkening skyline. Billy and Machiavelli went up in one seat, the others in the seat below them. The outlaw wrapped a hand around Machiavelli's wrist the moment they got above the sightline of the people on the ground below. "You alright?"

Niccolò nodded. "This isn't like the Zipper at all," he said smiling.

The wheel was loading seats two at a time. It came to a halt again as two more seats were filled, then started to ascend again. Billy pushed over carefully in the seat, trying not to make it rock overwhelmingly, but closing the person sized space between them.

"Mac? Can I ask you something?" he said very hesitantly. He waited for the teenager's response. "Of course, Billy." Machiavelli looked over at him.

Billy tipped his head back and forth thoughtfully. "Remember earlier today you said that people did- did… hmm." He sighed. "You said homosexual acts were more common back then. What'd you mean by that?"

"Mmm? Well, it was fairly common for politicians to take on a younger male lover. It wasn't thought of as strange." Machiavelli looked over at Billy, but Billy wasn't looking at him. Instead, he was looking ahead, at the lights of the town ahead.

"Did you?"

"Did I what?" Machiavelli already knew what Billy was asking him, but wanted to hear the other man say it himself.

Billy turned the solitaire ring on his pinky round and round. "Did you ever have a male lover?" Machiavelli shook his head, a soft no on his lips. He couldn't tell what the American felt by this, his reaction somehow masked. "Have you?" he asked teasingly. Billy made a face and shook his head, unconsciously mirroring the Italian's reaction. Niccolò felt both glad and disappointed at the same time.

"I did have a fair few female lovers, though," Machiavelli admitted.

"So did I." Billy looked at the moon, high above them, as their seat reached the top of the wheel. He pointed it out to his companion, smiling, and the moonlight glinted on his teeth. "Nobody's perfect."

"I wish we could go around again," Machiavelli admitted.

Billy glanced all around, then kissed him on the side of his head, surprising him. "We can." With all of the seats filled at last, the wheel began to turn without stopping, picking up speed, but remaining supportively sturdy. The outlaw laughed when his companion yawned for the second time. He kept his hand on Niccolò's wrist, unconscious of the fact until they began to descend back to the earth again.

When they got back to the ground, Billy held out a hand to help Machiavelli down. They stepped off the platform and waited for the others. "Ready to go home?"

Machiavelli nodded mutely. He leaned heavily on Billy as they began to climb the hill where their car was parked. This time, they put the outlaw in the middle. Machiavelli climbed in after him, shifting around as he attempted to fit his long frame into the small car. "It's getting cool," he mumbled.

"We're going to be home soon," Billy said gently. He wrapped an arm around him, stroking the teen's hair. Scatty leaned on his other side in a rare display of affection. As Machiavelli dropped off, Billy carefully moved his other arm so it was around Scatty's shoulder.

"How is it that you're not tired?" Scatty whispered quietly, so as to not wake the Italian.

"I offered to buy you a coffee at the restaurant."

"I don't like coffee."

They pulled up the long driveway. "Here we are," Billy said. "Mac! Mac, wake up." The Italian groaned and complained. "I know, sweetheart, but you're too big for me to carry now." He got out on Scatty's side and came over to the other side. "Up you go," he said, pulling him out of the car. He directed the teenager towards the cabin and into the living room. "Say goodnight."

Machiavelli looked over at the others. "Goodnight," he said, embracing the others each in turn. He looked around the cabin, wondering when he'd feel like he was home again, and followed Billy up the stairs.

"I'll wait out here," Billy said, hanging back in the hallway. "Just open the door when you're done changing."

"No, you can come in," Machiavelli said, shuffling into his bedroom. "I'm just going to put on sweatpants and change my shirt." He moved around the room, quickly slipping his shirt off and over his head. He tossed the clothes he was shedding into the laundry bag Billy had gave him. "Are we going to do this laundry before we leave or bring it with us?"

"Ah, we'll just toss it in the trunk," the Kid yawned. Machiavelli nodded. Billy's yawning was making him yawn too. "Get some sleep, honey, we have a lot of driving to do tomorrow."

"Okay." The Italian immortal pulled his blankets back. He climbed in, settling on his side. He gave a small laugh when Billy pushed him over on his back. The Kid grinned down at him.

"Won't be doing this much, anymore," he said, pulling the sheets up around the teenager's neck. "Next week, you'll be legally an adult again. That's got to be a good feeling." He smoothed the blankets unnecessarily, and sat on the edge of the bed.

"I guess so." Niccolò blinked. "Are the others going to be up when we leave tomorrow?"

"Course. We won't leave until after lunchtime."

"Good."

"Are you very sleepy, Mac?" Billy asked, fiddling with a toy knight on the Italian's bedside table that had somehow been left out.

Machiavelli nodded rather dumbly, settling back against his pillow. A certain drowsiness came over him. "I had fun today," he said sluggishly.

"Good," Billy said, smiling down at him. The Kid reached over and cradled his face. He could feel the coolness of the ring that Billy wore on his pinky finger. "So, are you upset that we're leaving tomorrow?"

"A little bit," he said softly, playing with the edge of his comforter. He refused to look up at the American. "I'm going to miss the others."

"Me, too. But at least we've got each other," Billy replied. Machiavelli chanced a look up at the outlaw. He was genuinely relieved that Billy knew what he had been talking about and hadn't waffled with him. Billy tapped gently on the Italian's nose. "So we're not completely alone. And we'll have fun. I still have a lot of plans." He paused. "Think I could give you a goodnight kiss? Or are you too old for that?"

"Sure," the Italian whispered. "To the kiss, I mean, I am too old... You know what I mean." He leaned forward and wrapped his arms around the skinny immortal. Billy kissed him on the side of his head, into his hair, and held him tightly.

After a moment, Billy let go of him. He eased the Italian down onto his bed. "Goodnight, Niccolò. I'll see you in the morning." As Machiavelli slept that night, he had a strange dream that Billy was pasting gold stars on the sky. When he woke up the next morning, he didn't remember the dream at all.


	81. Chapter 81

"Billy? Do we really have to leave?"

The Kid settled next to Machiavelli and the Pup on the end of the dock. He patted the dog on the back, rubbing rough circles in his fur. "You know we have to, Mac. Except for your hair and some wrinkles, you look like practically like you used to. We've got to move around."

Machiavelli sighed. "I suppose." He looked around the lake. Behind them, they could hear the whooping of a crane nearby.

"While we're on the road, I'm going to teach you how to drive," Billy said casually. Machiavelli looked over at him in horror, but Billy just took off his shoes and set them beside him. He dipped his feet in the lake, shivering at the cold water. "We're getting a pizza for lunch. What do you want on it?"

"Italian sausage, pepperoni, salami, green peppers, onions, feta cheese… oh, can you put red peppers on it too?"

Billy stopped dialing to look at him. "Fine, you can have your own pizza. But that's like a dozen toppings, we could get six pizzas for what that's going to cost…" Next to him, Machiavelli smiled and kissed the Pup's muzzle. Billy punched in the last digits and hit send. "Hello, I'd like to order a pizza. I hope you have a pen and paper next to you…"

~MB~

Lunch was over far too quickly. The others let Machiavelli wander around for a bit. He looked through his and Billy's bedrooms, making sure there was nothing left behind and glanced out the windows at the lake. It was only after he had found the tabby cat that he reluctantly came down the stairs.

Billy looked back at him from where he sat at the piano. "Ready to go, handsome?"

The Italian nodded. He came to stand behind the couch where the Flamels were sitting but didn't sit down himself.

"Oh, Niccolò," Perenelle said, getting to her feet. Nicholas followed her as she went around the furniture to where he was standing. She held his elbows. "We'll see each other sooner than later," she promised. "Keep thinking about your wife. I want to help you when we see each other again."

"Take care, my friend," Nicholas said, surprising him by kissing him on the cheek. "Safe travels." Machiavelli nodded, biting his bottom lip. He wandered into the kitchen where Scatty was leaning on the counter. "Aren't you going to give me a hug?" he asked her, giving her a small smile. She shook her head. "Come on. Please?"

"You know I'm not the hugging type," she said frostily.

He closed the space between them anyways, leaning next to her. "I wish you could come with us," he said under his breath. They watched Billy interacting with the Flamels in the other room.

The Shadow leaned in closer to Machiavelli. "I would have thought you'd like the alone time with Billy," she observed archly. He didn't deny it, glancing at her quickly and he ran a hand through his hair. He gave her a small half smile.

"I'm still going to miss you. I love you," he said very quietly.

Billy came into the kitchen. "Ah, Scatty, here you are." He wrapped his arms around her despite her mild protests and kissed her on the cheek. I love, love, love you. I'm going to miss you." She scoffed and he squeezed her tighter. "I'm not lying," he mumbled. "Am I, Mac?" he asked, releasing her.

Machiavelli shook his head. "No, he's not. And I should get a hug too, now that he got one." She sighed, but held out an arm. He enveloped her in a quick embrace and released her.

"Alright, Mac, we'd better go," Billy said. Machiavelli nodded and followed him out. He got in the passenger side, looking back at the cabin. Billy and he both waved at the others as the outlaw steered down the driveway. He looked over at the Italian a couple of times as they picked up the interstate. "Don't be sad, Mac-a-Whack."

The corners of Machiavelli's mouth turned up. "Don't call me that," he said automatically. "My father named me Niccolò after his father before him. It's a good name, isn't it?"

"It's a great name," Billy agreed. "But you were Mac when I first met you, and Mac you'll always be. And I've been thinking, Mac," he went on. Machiavelli looked over at him, wondering how one person could possibly talk so much. "I've been thinking that we should do something fun when you turn eighteen."

"Like what?"

"I don't know. You still won't be legally old enough to drink, but I guess there are other fun things to do besides drinking." He whooped as they really opened up. "Like lotto tickets!"

That made Machiavelli laugh. He shook his head, holding an arm out to the wind. "Are we going to stop anywhere today? Any grand plans?" he asked, feeling the air slip like water out of his hands.

Billy shrugged. "We can stop if we see a place we want to go into, but firm plans, no I don't have any. But there's no set schedule, so yell out if you see something." He drummed on the wheel, playing a slightly syncopated rhythm. "Hey! Want to play a game?"

"What kind of game?" Niccolò asked suspiciously.

"It's called 'Who Are They?'," Billy said excitedly. "When you see the people in another car, you have to make up a story for them. I'll go first." A red pickup truck with four bearded men drove down the other side. The Kid sucked on his teeth. "Ooh, difficult. But I'd have to say that they are a ballet troupe coming back from a big dance competition. They just won the big prize. A lifetime supply of soup." He grinned as another car came towards them. "You're turn."

"Ah, okay." Machiavelli leaned forward. "Old lady. Young man. They're obviously lovers. I think it really turns him on when she tucks her knickers in under her breasts."

"Oh, Mac, you're sick," Billy hooted. He made a face.

The Italian lay a hand across Billy's chest. "I'm not done. She is a professional flame eater, he works at the local butcher. Any number of puns referring to her cooking his meat will work." He waved his hand dismissively. "How about that car?"

"Obviously international spies."

"And that one?"

"Pirates from a different space and time. Hey did you know that there was a female pirate with the last name Bonney? I didn't know that until years after I took my moniker, but I think it's pretty cool. I mean, I don't condone her being a pirate, but then again, I was an outlaw, so I'm not one to judge…"

Machiavelli cut across his babbling. "What other games do you have?"

"Well, there's fortunately/ unfortunately."

"And how does one play this game?"

"One person starts with a statement that says fortunately at the beginning of it. The next person has to say a sentence that continues the thought, but starts with unfortunately. Do you want to start?"

Machiavelli scrunched up his face. He thought he'd better start with something rather mundane for safety's sake. "Fortunately… I have a lot of clean socks."

"Unfortunately, we left them at the cabin."

"Ah, well that is unfortunate. Let's see… fortunately, I have enough money that I can buy more socks when we stop next." He smiled in Billy's direction. Billy grinned back. "Unfortunately, if we keep up this speed of 60 miles per hour, it'll still take us ten hours to get across Montana, meaning we might not stop at a real store for days."

"What?"

"Fortunately," Billy continued, undeterred. "We have each other for company."

The conversation further deteriorated as they sped down the roadway. Machiavelli was caught up in a burst of emotion at Billy's words and let the conversation go down a strange pathway. Eventually, he ended it with the statement, "Fortunately, we're not two obese women attempting to flirt with a construction worker." Neither immortal was really sure how they had gotten to that point, but they were nervous to try to trace it back.

For a while afterwards, they rode in relative silence. Every once in a while, Machiavelli would change the CD. They found that while they didn't totally agree on music, there was enough they had in common to enjoy the ride. Machiavelli was a little surprised to find so many musicals in Billy's CD collection, but chalked it up to the outlaw being a fairly unusual man.

Finally, out of sheer boredom, Billy pulled the car over at a museum advertised on one of the many billboards they'd been passing. There was only one tour going on when they arrived at the museum, an interactive history of chocolate from the perspective of science, history, and popular culture. Machiavelli was particularly happy because after the tour ended, Billy bought him the biggest box of chocolates the gift shop had. "Don't eat too many of them," he warned the Italian. "You're going to make yourself sick."

An hour later, Machiavelli had slipped into a sugary coma. Billy let him sleep, but wrenched the box out of his hands and put it on the floor of the backseat. Using the cell phone they had just gotten the Italian, he checked the temperature. It was due to drop soon, and he briefly thought about pulling over to put the top up, but decided to keep pushing forward.

Finally, he pulled off the highway. Going some ways down the road, he pulled into a parking lot and turned the engine off. Getting out, he went around to the other side of the car. He sighed, but shook the teenager awake. "Mac. Mac! Time to wake up."

"Where are we?" Machiavelli asked groggily. He sat up slowly and peered into Billy's face, his eyes barely open.

"Miles City, Montana," Billy replied promptly. "More specifically, the Miles City McDonald's. Say that five times fast."

"Why?" Machiavelli groaned.

"Well, cause it's kind of fun with the repetitive letters and all… Oh, why are we at McDonald's? You need food and I need to get off the road for a little bit. Do you know we've been driving for nine hours? Not to mention the time we spent at the museum." He pulled the Italian immortal out of the car and led him towards restaurant.

Going into the restaurant, he ordered for both of them. Machiavelli was apparently too tired to care, sliding into one of the booths as Billy ordered. When the outlaw put a tray down in front of him, he picked at the burger. "Promise me we'll never eat here again," Machiavelli whispered across their Formica table.

"What's the matter, Mac, this doesn't meet your high standards?" Billy asked cheekily. He held out a fry to the Italian, who grudgingly took it.

"I'm not even sure this meets the health department's standards," Machiavelli answered darkly. He nibbled on the edge of the fry and made a face. All he could taste was the oil they had cooked the fries in. His heightened sense of taste made him want to throw up.

Needing something else to do, he looked around the McDonald's they were currently situated in. The franchise had attempted to look a little classier by decorating the area in soft browns and tans, but somehow their desired effect hadn't quite come through. The Italian was particularly disgusted with these glass divisions throughout the restaurant which seemed to have been deliberately made to look like the cracked windshield of a bad car accident.

"I don't like it here," he said quietly. "It makes me sad. Nobody seems to want to be here. Not the employees, not the customers.

"Well, unfortunately, nobody here is really ecstatic to be here during the day, let alone at," Billy checked his watch, "eleven at night. Nothing else is open at this hour and you were hungry. Eat something."

"I can't taste anything but grease," Machiavelli insisted. He covered one of Billy's hands with both of his own in an effort to be truly sincere. "It's my sense of taste. I can taste everything that went into this food and you know I have a weak stomach as it is." He fluttered his lashes at the American.

Billy sighed. "I know, I know. It's just there's no place else that's open at this time. We're in the middle of east Bumfuck."

"I'd rather wait until later and just not eat right now," Machiavelli beseeched him desperately. "Please?"

"Alright. If you're sure. But we might as well go now," Billy said, tossing everything into their bag and getting up. "Are you sure you can wait that long? Your body needs more food than the rest of ours. We won't be able to get real food for a couple of hours."

Machiavelli nodded gravely. He climbed into his side of the Thunderbird and shivered slightly. "Billy, can we put the top up? I'm getting cold."

"I can do that," the American immortal agreed immediately. "In fact, here." He went around the back of car. Machiavelli craned his neck, but couldn't see what he was doing. Billy came back a moment later with a blanket. The Italian immortal was embarrassed, but rather pleased when Billy tucked it around him. Going around the other side of the car, Billy set to business bringing the top of the car up. Having changed the car over, he got in. "Warm enough now or you want the heat on?"

"I'm fine now," Machiavelli said sleepily. "He pulled the lever on his right so that his seat tilted back a bit more. "Why do you think I get so tired all the time?"

Billy shrugged, already backing the car out of its spot. "Your body doesn't match up to who you really are. It's playing catch up right now." He pet the top of the Italian's head, then dropped his hand to the back of the seat. "Try to stay awake just a little bit longer, honey. I'm going to stop at that motel across the street. It'll be easier to move you if you're awake."

"Okay," Machiavelli said sleepily.

"You want a room of your own?" Billy asked, backing out. He maneuvered down the road, pulling into another parking lot, this one dimly lit by orange light. A sign above them read 'Welcome to Miles City'. Soon, they were up on the second floor landing, the Kid fumbling with the keys they'd been given.

Machiavelli felt a little guilty, complaining about how tired he was when he watched Billy slump on to the bed closest to the window. He putzed around the room, shutting the blinds and making sure the deadbolt was on the door. He glanced over at his American friend. Billy had fallen asleep on top of the blankets. Wrapping an arm around the outlaw's knees, he lifted the man enough to pull the blankets out from under him. He yanked off Billy's boots, pulled the covers over him and moved over to his own bed. There, he stayed awake only long enough to undress and climb under the covers. Pulling on the chain above him, he turned out the light.


	82. Chapter 82

Machiavelli was actually the first to wake up the next morning, a true testament to how tired his American friend must have been, since the Italian could not remember waking up before him for a long time. He moved his legs experimentally, thinking about how they'd started in a motel room and now here they were again.

In time, curiosity overcame him. Billy and he hadn't shared a bedroom since he'd been very small and now he wanted to see what Billy looked like when he slept. He eased out from under the covers and sat on the edge of Billy's bed. He winced a little when the bedsprings groaned under his weight, sure that the outlaw would wake up, but his companion just flipped over on his back and continued to snore softly.

Machiavelli smiled a little. Billy always looked young, but when he was asleep, he looked even younger. There was something in his boyish face that made him seem more vulnerable when he slept. Without thinking about it, he reached out a hand and tenderly cupped the American's face.

Billy mumbled incoherently and Machiavelli let go. Getting up, he yanked the blankets free from where they'd been twisted around his legs and he settled the covers over his companion once more. He crept over to the window and pulled the curtain aside just slightly. A solitary beam of light stole into the room. It was at moments like this, when the world was very quiet that he got to thinking of his children. They lingered on the corners of his mind as he gathered a fresh change of clothes and shut himself in the bathroom.

Climbing into the shower, it took him a moment to get used to how the hot water had to be set, but once it was on, he just stood there, letting the hot water run on his back and steam fill the room.

Finally, he figured he'd better clean up a little. He bent down, reaching out of the shower to grab the caddy he'd pulled into the room with him. He snagged the first bottle he touched, trying not to get water all over the floor and ended up with Billy's shampoo. This gave him some pause, but after a moment's hesitation, he just went with it. His slight anality forced him to use the corresponding conditioner.

He thought that by the time he got out of the shower, Billy would have been up and about, but coming out of the room, he saw the outlaw still in bed. _At least, he's awake_, he thought. "Good morning. Come stai?"

Billy made a snuffling noise as he rolled over. "Does that mean, how are you? I'm okay." He wrapped himself more snuggly in the blankets. "What time is it?" he asked thickly.

"Noon."

Billy shot up. "It's noon?" he asked, sounding a little panicked.

Machiavelli shoved him back down. "No," he said laughing. "I just wanted to get you back, is all." And he grinned with mischief at the American who scowled a little, but closed his eyes again.

"I should get up," Billy groaned. Machiavelli nodded, tugging on his arm lightly. The outlaw sat up again, slowly this time. His nose twitched. "Isn't that my shampoo?" he asked sleepily. Machiavelli acknowledged it with another slight nod. "Mm, I smell good," Billy said, getting up at last. He headed for the bathroom.

"Taking a shower?" Machiavelli asked.

"A leak," Billy called through the half open door. "But then I guess I should take a shower. Why, you think I smell?"

"No. But I do think you should shave!" he called back, standing outside the doorway. "You're getting scruffy!" Billy mumbled something back that the Italian couldn't make out. "I'm going to get us something to eat."

Billy poked around the door. He was stripped to his waist, his face half covered in lather. "I said I'd get you some food, honey. I'm not going to be long."

Machiavelli's stomach rumbled. He looked at Billy suspiciously. "How long do you think you're going to be?"

Billy rubbed his chin, causing the shaving cream to smear and Machiavelli to laugh. "Hmm, well, I won't be in there a half hour like you were."

Half an hour and some snide remarks later, they found themselves at a local diner. The shower had seemed to wake Billy up only partially. It wasn't until their chunky waitress had dropped off a mug of coffee that he really began to talk. Machiavelli made a mental note that if he ever wanted to keep Billy quiet, he should withhold the coffee.

Niccolò himself felt much happier once he had his breakfast plate in front of him. He cut his fried eggs and toast up into small bites and mixed them together. He slapped Billy's hand when the American tried to take a piece of bacon off his plate. Billy flagged down their waitress. "Oh, Sandy, do you think I could have a side of bacon?" Machiavelli perked up. "Two sides of bacon?"

Sandy seemed unimpressed by their considerable appetites. She scribbled their order on her pad and wandered off before Billy could ask for another cup of coffee. He grimaced at her behind her back. "That's coming out of her tip," he said sulkily. Machiavelli consoled him by handing him the piece of bacon he had been trying to grab before. "Thanks. Want a sausage?" He speared one on his fork and held it out to the teen.

Machiavelli took the whole fork from him. At the man's glance, he tossed his own fork over. "So where are we heading now?"

"We're going to swing up to the house in Thief River Falls I told you about. I think we can stay there for a day or so, probably leave on Thursday morning. From there, we'll get to Philadelphia by Friday, barring any major tragedies." He pulled a map out of his back pocket and showed the Italian immortal where they were at the moment. Trailing his finger across the map, he showed him where they were going. He tapped his finger a little lower than the city where they were staying. "This is where the airplane fields are."

They would have continued to chat for a while longer but as soon as they were done their food, Sandy began to herd them out of their booth. "That woman doesn't exactly make a body feel welcome," Billy said testily as they walked down the road to their motel again.

Machiavelli concealed a snicker. "Harsh words from the man that still left her a tip."

Billy looked pained. "My mother taught me to treat women with respect. Any woman. Even that-," but he wasn't able to complete the thought. Machiavelli nodded. His Italian upbringing had left a similar mark on him.

"Still, the American custom of tipping has never made sense to me. You've already paid for your meal, now you have to pay more." As they made sure they had rounded up all of their belongings, Machiavelli quirked an eyebrow at him.

"I think the reasoning behind it is that your waiter will be nicer and work harder if their pay depends on it." Billy grabbed their shower bag from the bathroom and put it together with the other bag.

"I think your reasoning failed this time, Billy."

"Yeah, well," Billy trailed off, rubbing the back of his hair. "I was going to buy sandwiches for lunch from her. I didn't do that, did I? We'll get something to eat somewhere else."

~MB~

After about two hours of driving, Billy pulled off the road into an abandoned parking lot. Machiavelli looked over at him. "What are you doing?" he asked, his Italian accent slipping out in his curiosity.

Billy got out of the car, stretching his limbs out. "Mm, I'm tired of driving." Machiavelli got out too, figuring that he was just taking a break. He looked over at Billy when the outlaw snapped at him. "You're going to drive."

"What?"

The Kid reached into the car and pushed the seat back all the way. "I told you I'd teach you how to drive. No better time than now." He patted the seat. "No need to be afraid. We're just going to get you comfortable."

Machiavelli made a face, leaning slightly to the left. "Billy, I'm a disaster with driving. And this is your baby. What if I wreck it?"

"You're not going to wreck it," Billy said patiently. _That's what you think_. He tugged Machiavelli by the sleeve, until he was standing next to the driver's side. Machiavelli reluctantly sat behind the wheel. Billy leaned over him. "Alright, we need to get the seat in the right place. This foot," he plucked at the left pant leg, "should be comfortably against this foot rest, here. But it's not, so we have to move the seat a little." So saying, he reached between the Italian's legs (Machiavelli groaned internally), and pushed the seat forward marginally. "Can you press the brake and gas pedals alright?"

Machiavelli tried with his feet. He nodded, so Billy jogged around the front of the car to the passenger side of the car. Getting in, he showed the Italian how to fix the mirrors so that he could see out of them. "All this, just to take a break? Is it worth it?" he joked.

"Completely," Billy said happily. "Besides if you get good at it, you can do some of the driving."

"But we're not going on the highway now, are we?" Machiavelli asked frantically.

Billy shook his head. "We'll just drive around the parking lot a little," he said reassuringly. "Right now the car is in park. We're going to be moving, so now you should shift it into drive," the Kid said.

"How does one do that?" Machiavelli asked, looking at the numerous dials and levers in front of him.

"Pull the clutch in, use your toe to select a gear, feather the clutch out while applying the throttle," Billy said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. He met Machiavelli's disbelieving look. "Oh, sorry. Here, first you do this. Now you're going to press that. And now just move this back out again," he demonstrated.

Machiavelli jumped in his seat when the car suddenly lurched forward. Billy gripped his neck. "Careful, no need to panic," he said. The Italian was surprised that he still sounded so cheerful. "You just need to put a little pressure on the gas pedal, not much, maybe a little less than that. Let's just get you used to moving the car."

"You want me to turn here?" Machiavelli asked, taking very deep breaths considering he was inching along at about three miles per hour.

"Driving makes you nervous, huh?" Billy asked, grabbing the wheel to help guide him. Niccolò nodded. "Why?" the outlaw asked with frank curiosity. "Driving's fun. Gives you freedom."

"It's just something I'm very bad at," Machiavelli said tightly, turning around the next corner. He oversteered onto the wrong side of the road and attempted to correct. He ended up going over some of the parking spaces and in his nervousness, slammed on the brakes.

Billy massaged the place where the seat belt had just cut into him. "You actually weren't doing too awful before you panicked. There are no cars in this parking lot, so I don't really care where you go. Just stay on the pavement."

"Okay," Machiavelli said. He attempted to make the car go, pressing down on the gas. The car revved but didn't move.

"You've got it in park now, actually. I thought you did that on purpose actually. I was impressed." Billy smiled at him.

"How'd I put it in park?"

"Well, you moved this," Billy said, pointing out what he had done. "Here, let's put it in drive again." He demonstrated the same procedure as before. "You know, Mac, if you don't want to learn to drive, that's fine too. I'll drive you anywhere you want to go. I just don't want you limiting yourself."

"I might get it," Machiavelli said cautiously. He turned the car very slowly around. "Or I might never. I've tried to learn multiple times. I just never get the hang of it."

"Well, everyone needs something to be bad at," Billy said, sounding totally serious. "I'm bad at a lot of things. You want me to take over driving again?" Machiavelli nodded, stepping on the brake again, but lightly this time.


	83. Chapter 83

"Do you want me to read to you?" Machiavelli suggested a few hours later in their journey.

Billy looked over at him. "Doesn't reading in the car make you sick?" Machiavelli shook his head. "Oh, it always makes me carsick. But then again, usually when I'm not driving, it's Black Hawk so I guess we're already half way there. What are you going to read?"

Machiavelli twisted around in his seat and snagged a satchel off the back seat. Straining, he also grabbed the box of chocolates that Billy had bought him. He opened that box first, and took a bite from one of the chocolates. He made a face- cherry. He popped it in Billy's mouth. "Okay, let's see what's in here."

"You didn't pack these books?" Billy asked, grabbing another chocolate.

"Nicholas packed it for me. Books from the store." Machiavelli pulled out the first couple of books in the bag and looked at the spines. "There's the Hobbit, and then On the Road by Jack Kerouac, that's appropriate. Cannery Row, Lolita, To Kill a Mockingbird, Lord of the Flies… how many books are in here?"

"Nick must have known we'd get bored. How about you read… Lord of the Flies. I haven't read that since it came out and that was," he drummed his fingers on the wheel, "1954."

"Well, I'll try to do it justice," Machiavelli said, cracking the spine of the novel. He looked down for a moment, kicking off his sneakers so that he could be comfortable. He used Billy's discarded jacket as a pillow and finally, began to read in accented English.

Machiavelli had forgotten how much he'd liked this book. The juxtaposition of civilization and wilderness, of humanity and hatred had enthralled him in the past, and it did again now. He barely noticed the minutes, then hours, slipping away as they coasted down the highway, Billy on his left.

As the sun dipped lower in the sky, his reading became more frantic, Machiavelli racing against the clock. It was with some relief, mixed with candid appreciation, that he read the last few lines. "_Ralph wept for the end of innocence, the darkness of man's heart, and the fall through the air of the true, wise friend called Piggy_." He looked over at Billy. "Great book," the Kid said. He pulled over to the side of the road.

"Are you making me drive again?" Niccolò asked fearfully.

Billy shook his head. "Just putting the top up. Temperature's only going to get colder. We're actually heading north right now."

"Yeah, about that," Machiavelli hedged, tossing the book onto the seat behind him. "Why are we heading north to get south?"

"It's a remote place to stay and it's free. Besides we're going to have to stop in Minnesota anyways, if we're going to ride that plane." Billy flashed a grin. "Want the blanket from the trunk? You always get colder than I do."

Machiavelli agreed. He tossed Billy his coat. "Put it on," he commanded.

The Kid saluted him, but he tucked the coat in his armpit. It wasn't until after he'd pulled the blanket out that he bundled into the jacket. He put the top up on the convertible, making sure it was in place before turning the ignition over again.

"How far are we from the house?" Machiavelli inquired, inspecting the pink streaked horizon. As they pulled back onto the interstate, the blue and pink mixed more to introduce purple into the air.

"About an hour away. You going to read some more?"

Machiavelli was already thumbing through the books. "Want me to?"

"Wasn't your voice getting tired before?" Billy asked, glancing over at him. "We can just talk. Do you miss the others?"

"Yeah," Machiavelli said, a bit uncomfortably. "I wonder what they're doing right now?"

"Mm, you could call them when we get there. I think right now we're probably driving through dead zones like crazy," Billy suggested. "I promised we'd keep in touch anyways, I was just too tired last night."

Niccolò nodded. They rode in relative quiet for a mile or two, both immortals seemingly absorbed by their own thoughts. The Italian broke the silence first. "Billy? You seem happy a lot. Do you ever get mad?"

"Of course I do. I got pretty mad at you that one time, didn't I?" Billy drawled. He handed Machiavelli a new CD to put in. Seeming to think about it a little more, he elaborated more. "I was angry a lot when I was a teenager, myself. Angrier than you've been and I behaved worse. It was something I had to work on."

Machiavelli nodded. "How'd you do that?" he asked, his natural curiosity causing him to almost interrogate the American.

Billy drummed his hands on the wheel. "Getting away from the outlaw life helped. You know, my stepfather didn't want anything to do with me, so I found a lot of my father figures in somewhat… sketchy places. One of them, John Tunstall, he was the first guy to give me an honest job. But he got shot and I swore that I'd get vengeance for him. But trying to do that, I lost a lot of friends. And I kept getting pulled further in."

Machiavelli was watching him. Billy flashed a smile at him, gentle, but strained. "Eventually, I realized I'd have to step away from it all."

The Italian was almost sorry that he asked. He glanced over when Billy groaned slightly under his breathe. "What's the matter?"

"My legs are just stiff, is all," the outlaw replied. "Happens when I drive a lot."

"Oh." Machiavelli turned a thought over in his head before he made the suggestion in his mind. "Want me to get behind the wheel again?"

Billy looked over at him in surprise. "Really? Do you want to?" He took the next exit, merging onto a bypass. "Well, we are on a bypass and close to the cabin. I could take over again," he suggested.

The gray eyed immortal was already regretting making his suggestion, but he nodded. Billy pulled the Thunderbird onto the shoulder and they commenced the complicated process of switching seats again. "You're going to have to show me how to do the thing again," Machiavelli said, refusing to look him in the eye.

Billy seemed unperturbed. He walked Machiavelli through the motions again, then settled back, pulling the red wool blanket over him. "Don't go to sleep," Niccolo warned him. "I need you watching me, otherwise I'm going to do something wrong."

"I wasn't planning on falling asleep," Billy replied, stretching his long legs out on the dashboard. "But you're going to be okay, anyways. There's nobody on the road right now. Now put on the gas, just slightly and we're going to go back on the road, so put on your directional." He leaned over the other immortal, hitting the switch for him. "Alright, you can turn it off."

Machiavelli tensed up. At 20 miles per hour, he felt like they were already tempting fate too much, so it was little comfort to him when the American immortal suggested he speed up. He pressed down on the gas only with the stipulation that Billy keep a hand on the wheel at all times. "Hey, this isn't so bad," he said excitedly. "I'm doing it."

"Yeah, you are!" Billy said happily. "Of course, we're still twenty miles below the speed limit and my arm's going numb, but I still think you're doing great."

"Do you think I should go faster?"

"Are you comfortable going faster? Cause it would be kind of nice to get to the cabin before tomorrow," Billy commented. "How about we get up to about 50 mph?" He patted Machiavelli on the back as the numbers on the speedometer lit up. "How are you doing?"

"Okay," the Italian stammered. He clung to the wheel. Billy tried to calm him down by massaging his neck, but the prolonged physical contact was actually more distracting to the Italian than comforting. He both hit the accelerator and swerved over the median line. The Kid released his neck and pulled the wheel back to the right. "Sorry! I can slow down."

"It's okay, sweetheart," Billy consoled him. "We're finally at the speed limit. Just relax."

Machiavelli decided to say something that he never thought he would say. "Just keep talking to me. Talk about anything."

"Hmm, do you think that the Flamels run out of things to say to each other? I mean how much time can you spend together before you stop having stories to tell each other? I'd like to always have a little mystery to my relationships. You can't know everything about a person," Billy babbled. He corrected Machiavelli's steering. "You're going to turn up there. What do you think?"

"What do I think about-?" He took his eyes off the road to look at Billy. The car drifted over to the side of the road and hit the rumble strips. "Sorry!"

Billy turned the wheel the other way. "Careful, the tires. You're going to turn right there before the bridge, here, slow down a little bit. I was asking what you think about couples that are together too long. Do you think people can be together too long? Merge here, you're doing fine."

Niccolo was relieved that there was nobody coming down the road. "I don't know," he said distractedly. "I mean, we've both lived a long time. We've done a lot of things. Maybe it's the same for the Flamels, maybe they've got a lot to talk about."

"Do you think we're going to run out of things to talk about?" Billy asked suddenly. "I'm not smart like you, Mac. What if all our whole relationship is based on you needing me cause you were little?"

Machiavelli kept quiet for a moment, thinking about what he wanted to say. "I still need you now, and I'm not little anymore, am I?" he reasoned. "I wouldn't trust anybody else to steer me straight in the dark, in a strange area, behind the wheel of a very important car. Just you." He turned down several other roads, following Billy's quiet directions. Finally, the American immortal directed him to a stop before a nondescript house in the suburbs of what looked to be a very small town.

"Here we are," Billy said. He tousled Machiavelli's hair. "Thanks for driving us. You did a great job." He got a shy smile in return.

"Sorry it took so much longer."

Billy shushed him, putting up a hand in protest. "I liked the ride," he said simply, throwing the blanket off as he ducked out of the car. He folded it messily and called for Machiavelli to pop the trunk. There, he exchanged the blanket for their two suitcases. "There is one problem," he told the Italian as they walked up the darkened walkway to the front door.

Machiavelli used a small amount of his aura to light up the front porch as Billy took out a key ring with what looked like two dozen rings on it. "What?" he asked wearily as the Kid sorted through the keys.

Billy finally found the right one and fit it into the lock. "Well, with the cabin, I knew we were staying there for a week, so I turned on all the utilities again. But it seemed kind of pointless since we're just staying here for two days.

"So we have no electricity? Or water?" Machiavelli asked incredulously.

"We have water," Billy said dismissively. "There's a well in the back that works. And we can use our auras to light up the place. Let's order Chinese and we can watch something on my laptop."

"Okay," Machiavelli said, sounding very tired. The past couple of days on the road had taken a toll on both of them. "Where's my bedroom?"

Billy led him through the living room and down a hall. "This is the bathroom," he indicated, pointing to the first door on the left. "Let's see. This has always been my room, so we'll put you in here," he decided, opening the door at the end of the hall. They stepped in. There were a couple of bunk beds against the wall and an armchair in the corner. "Sorry. It's a really small house."

"I like it," Machiavelli said, setting his suitcase down. "But why the bunk beds?"

"I sometimes rent out my properties to earn a little cash. I think the last people to live here had a little boy."

Niccolò nodded. He'd wondered how Billy had supported himself. It didn't seem like the Kid had kept a regular job except for doing the occasional task for his master and even then, Machiavelli doubted that Quetzalcoatl had provided for him. "I'm just going to change into pajamas," he told the other immortal.

"Okay. I'm going to order food now. What do you want? Anything special?" He turned and waited in the doorway, his hand on the knob.

"I've never had Chinese food, at least not American Chinese food," Machiavelli said, ignoring Billy's dramatic gasp. He pulled a pair of sweatpants out of his case and wrestled with a long sleeve tee. "So just get whatever you think is good," he added, pulling down the shade in his window so that he could get undressed.

"I like spicy food, how about you?" Billy said, snagging the Italian's phone to look up restaurants in town.

"Until recently, everything had to be spicy so that I could taste it. That seems to have fixed itself so I'm fine with anything. Hit me with your best shot." He struggled into his sweatpants.

Billy nodded, dialing a number in his phone. Wandering into the other room, he could be heard ordering pork fried rice, chicken and beef teriyaki, boneless spare ribs, and an order of General Tso's chicken. "What are we going to watch?" he called through his door after he had hung up.

Machiavelli was already looking through the American's movies. He didn't really recognize any of the titles, never having watched a lot of TV before meeting the American immortal. He set aside Ghost, Schindler's List, and Shawshank Redemption. Coming up behind him, Billy added Field of Dreams, We are Marshall, and the Godfather. "We're not going to agree on a movie, are we?" Machiavelli asked as the American immortal not so subtly put away Schindler's List.

"Well, let's make it simple. Let's put back any movies that make us want to slit our wrists," Billy suggested. "Why don't we make a night of it? We can watch one of your movies, one of mine, and go from there." The doorbell rang. "There's dinner. Pick any of yours. I like them all."


	84. Chapter 84

Hello! Sorry this comes rather late, I just started a new job in addition to a part time position I was already doing (so I'm a bit of a busy lady these days). I hope that you enjoy this chapter and also look forward to any suggestions you might have about next chapter, which is going to be a lot of driving otherwise, lol. I mean, that was cool in Manos the Hands of Fate, but only cause we got to make fun of it...

~MB~

Both immortals slept in the next morning. It was almost eleven before Machiavelli awoke, only somewhat aware of a pleasant tight feeling in his lower abdomen. Only after he got up to relieve himself, did he become fully aware of his situation below. Sticking his head out of his door, he ascertained that the coast was clear, before shuffling down the hall to the bathroom.

He bounced somewhat impatiently on the soles of his feet as he gave several long, concerted strokes, alternating hands in his impatience. "Come on," he mumbled distractedly. At the last moment, he dove for the box of tissues.

Otherwise completing his business, he fixed his pants, washed his hands, and wandered into the other room to prowl. This house didn't seem nearly as lived in as the cabin back in Montana. There were very few personal touches to be seen.

He moved into the kitchen area. There was a low wall in between the living room and the kitchen, demarcating the different spaces. He was pouring himself some cereal when Billy came in.

"Good morning," the Kid yawned, squeezing into the nook beside Machiavelli. He invaded the teen's space slightly when he leaned over, scratching at his rear. "How'd you sleep?" Billy asked through another yawn. He pecked the Italian on his cheek, out of habit, more than anything else.

"I slept well. You?"

"Great. Hey, did you know that this guy," he tapped the cereal box, "Dr. Kellogg himself, spent a lot of time and money trying to get people to stop masturbating?"

Machiavelli accidentally spat out part of his breakfast. "Excuse me, what?"

Billy looked pleased to have something new to tell the Italian. "He was the major proponent behind all boys getting circumcisions. He thought that boys wouldn't want to touch themselves as much."

"Didn't work, did it?" Machiavelli asked archly, thinking about his own morning routine.

"Yeah. Aren't you glad we made the cut?" Billy asked thickly, speaking around a mouthful of Apple Jacks. He grinned happily at the Italian and waggled his eyebrows. "Get it, huh? Cause neither of us are, you know…" he trailed off at the look on Machiavelli's face.

"Hmm," was the only response that he got back.

~MB~

That afternoon, the outlaw drove both of them down to the airfields. Machiavelli became increasingly silent as they neared their destination, and Billy in turn, filled the silence with chatter. "Did you know that this kind of flying, called barnstorming, it was became popular in the 1920s and that Charles Lindbergh started out doing this? I went down to see the planes with Black Hawk back when this first started. It was impressive, you wouldn't believe it."

The Italian nodded noncommittally, still refusing to vocalize anything that he was thinking. "I was very nervous the first time I went out," Billy added, turning down the off ramp.

Machiavelli tore his eyes off the road. "Were you?" he asked gratefully. He knew that truthfully the thrill seeking immortal must not have been nearly as worried as he was right now, but he appreciated Billy's efforts.

"We're here."

Machiavelli had been expecting something a little more impressive than what Billy drove up to that afternoon. The building they parked next to looked like an oversized auto-mechanic shop. "Is there anybody here?" he asked Billy, following the Kid into one of the side doors.

"Of course, I made a reservation. Come over here," he said rounding a corner. "Hello!"

A pilot came down from where he was working on the wing of an antique plane. A second aircraft was situated next to it. "You must be the Bonney's," he called down, extending a hand when he came before them.

Billy shook it. "We are," he agreed, teeth flashing as he smiled. "This is my cousin, Nick."

"First time out?" the pilot queried after shaking Machiavelli's hand too. "My name's Steve, by the way."

"Not mine, no. But it is Nicky's first time up," Billy explained. He tossed an arm around his companion's shoulders and squeezed slightly.

Steve wiped his hands on a rag and led them to the other plane. "I'll be careful," he promised. "Here, the two of you sit in front. I'll be behind you here."

Machiavelli was reluctant, so Billy got in first, ducked under the aileron, and held a hand out for him. "Nervous?" he asked quietly. He harnessed him in, careful to tighten the straps.

"I'm always nervous before these things," Machiavelli answered out of the corner of his mouth. "And why are we the Bonney's all the time?" Why can't we be the Machiavelli's?"

"Well, Mac, I didn't know you wanted me to take your last name," Billy joked back. He glanced behind them. "Steve's coming. Be normal." That caused the Italian to grouse a little, but he bit back his protests.

Steve propped himself up next to them, checking their fastenings. "So you wanted me to do all the tricks? Or are you going to take the wheel? Some of the people I take out operate the plane for up to 90% of the ride."

Billy looked over at Machiavelli, who gave a very slight shake of his head. "Nah, Nicky would feel better with you behind the wheel."

"Okay." He patted the teenager on the shoulder. "Hey, if you get scared and want me to take the plane down, raise your left hand, okay? We'll be on the ground again in a jiffy." He got down and slid into his place in the seat behind them.

Machiavelli clenched a little when he heard the engine turn on. The whole plane roared into life. He grabbed Billy's hand as the plane turned towards the open doorway of the garage, unashamedly intertwining his fingers with the American's.

"You okay?" Billy asked, squeezing his hand.

Machiavelli nodded. "Okay. Don't let go, though," he said shakily, tightening his grip so that his American friend didn't really have a choice in the matter.

The plane steered down the runway, but Billy wasn't watching the plane's progress the way that Niccolò was. "I won't," he promised, looking at the teen. Just then, the plane lifted up in to the air. Billy transferred his left hand with his right hand and wrapped his left arm around Machiavelli's shoulders as they approached full altitude. "Still good?"

Niccolò peeked out at the world below them. The grassy field they'd launched from looked very far away, but he could feel himself beginning to calm down significantly. In front of them, mountains mingled with clouds. "It's not so bad once we're level."

"Okay, well we're going to be going into one of the tricks right now," the Kid cautioned him.

"We are?"

The plane was already tipping, one wing dipping lower than the other. "Remember, you're harnessed in just fine," Billy said, stroking his arm. The plane rolled over once, then twice. It straightened out again and circled the field, changing directions in lazy turns.

"It's kind of fun," Machiavelli said, opening his mouth for the first time in a few minutes. "What was that-?" He stopped talking again, as the plane tilted, upwards this time.

"We're going to do a few loop-the-loops now," Billy explained. He whooped as they completed one loop and started on another one. Even Machiavelli had to grin as his stomach rose and fell with the plane. He extended an arm out to the wind, feeling it whoosh between his fingertips.

As the plane leveled out again, he took a deep breath in. Up here, in the open air, he felt like he was hovering above the Earth, with nothing but Billy's calm keeping him airborne. Their craft piloted in easy turns, swinging around the mountain he'd seen earlier. Looking below them, he could see the leaves of the trees changing color below him.

Billy tossed an arm around his shoulder as they went into a slight dive and didn't move it after they pulled out of the fall again. He chattered happily, keeping the Italian immortal slightly occupied with conversation instead of thinking about what their plane was doing. "Are you having fun?" he asked, sounding slightly worried.

Machiavelli looked over at him and gave him the biggest smile he could muster up. "Yeah," he agreed hesitantly.

Billy squeezed his shoulder. "Are you sure? Cause if you're not, we can go down right now." Machiavelli found it hard to look away from the Kid's stunning blue eyes. He nodded again. "You're not lying to me?" Billy asked again, seeking assurances.

"It's a little bit scary, but I know that I'll be okay with it when we land," Machiavelli admitted. "You really like being up here?"

The outlaw leaned forward, looking at the detailing of the machine around them. "I do. It's fun. And I find that taking many adventures has kept me from being too lonely over the years."

"Are you lonely often, Billy?"

Billy held out a hand, palm down and rocked it back and forth. "Yes and no. I think anybody like us, who are kind of forced to live life mostly alone, you know, would get lonely. I mean, I've got Black Hawk and you had your friend there, but it would be nice to have someone to have adventures with all the time. You know?" The outlaw spoke rapidly, smiling nervously, and looking about them.

The European immortal nodded. When he spoke, he was so quiet that with the wind whipping about them, Billy almost couldn't hear him. "We could have adventures together. I don't want to go away when I turn 18. I think I'll be lonely too."

"Well, we can't have that. No, Mac, you stay with me for as long as you want. I'd like to have you around," Billy said, sounding slightly gruff. "Plane's touching down now," he added, speaking into the other immortal's ear. "There's a bit of a bump when we land. Just when we touch down. Don't worry."

The plane was dipping lower and while Machiavelli was tracking their descent, he leaned back right before they touched down. Billy had been right; there was a slight bump and thn a rattle as they coasted down the runway again.

"From here, it's like steering a car," Billy shouted above the noise. "A very tall, very loud one," he added, laughing.

Machiavelli laughed too, giddy from finding himself on the ground again, and in one piece too, for that point. He let go of Billy's hand at last, undoing his harness the moment the plane finally came to a halt. The Kid squeezed his knee when he began to get up. "You'll have an easier time getting out when Steve gets the stairs over here."

"How's he going to get down?" Machiavelli wondered, craning his neck to see for himself.

"There's a ladder built into the side of the plane. Here he is, actually."

After they paid the pilot, Machiavelli followed Billy back to the car. He settled gratefully in the Thunderbird, vowing to remain on the ground for a very long while. "Can we get some ice cream?" he asked hopefully.

"Sure, we'll stop somewhere on the way home," Billy agreed easily. "Hey Mac? If you're ever not comfortable doing something, you never have to do it. Promise me you know that?"

Machiavelli nodded. "I think I'd go out there and do it again, sometime. Not right now, but someday take another plane ride," he offered. "I think I'm just the kind of guy who panics the first time around."

"Well, that's why you have me," Billy said brightly. "Hey, tonight you should call the Flamels. We never got around to do that last night. I'd like to say hi to them too."

"I miss them all," Machiavelli said. He perked up. "Maybe they can put the Pup and Georgette on the line." He spoke much more freely now that he felt safe. Billy let him talk, buying both of them an ice cream at the first creamery they came across. He shook his head a little when the Italian got the biggest size ice cream they had, but let him do it.

~MB~

As Billy searched once more for the correct keys to get into the house, Machiavelli fished his cell phone out of his pocket. "Why don't you label them?" he suggested after the third key the American tried turned out to be wrong.

"I always think about it," Billy mumbled, trying a fourth key and opening the door at last. "But then I get in and I put the keys down and I can't remember which one I just used. So I never end up doing it." He tossed the keys on the side table by the door, pasting a charming smile on his face.

Machiavelli gave him a small smile, but shook his head as he finished dialing the Shadow's number. He listened to it ring and full on grinned when he heard Scatty's voice on the other end of the line. "Hello!"

"Put it on speaker," Billy commanded, sitting beside him and grabbing for the phone. Niccolò swatted his hand away, but did as he said. He set the phone on the coffee table in front of them. "Do you miss us?" the Kid called into the phone, sitting Indian style on the couch next to his Italian counterpart.

Scatty's answer to the negative sent Billy into peals of laughter. Machiavelli's lips curled up in a smile, but he didn't find it nearly as amusing as his American friend had apparently found it. He feigned indignation, pressing the Shadow for a positive response and laughed a little himself when she became increasingly rude in her answers. At last, he let the point go. "Guess what we've been up to?" he asked, trying to entice her into the conversation.

"I shudder to guess," Scatty said on her end of the line, sounding for all intents and purposes, vaguely bored by their antics. "Nothing illegal, right Billy?"

Billy actually looked a little offended at that. "Of course not," he said, sounding scandalized. "I wouldn't do anything to Mac that wasn't good for him. You know that."

Machiavelli glanced between the outlaw and the phone. Apparently, Scatty and Billy were referencing something that they hadn't included him on. The thought annoyed him a little, settling on the back of his mind, but he focused on regaining the conversation at hand. He made a mental note to revisit this conversation with Billy later on in the night, figuring that he could wheedle information out of the good natured immortal rather easily. "Well, he did do one awful thing to me, Scatty."

Both American immortals stopped squabbling momentarily. "He made me drive," he moaned melodramatically. "It was awful."

"He was good at it," Billy defended himself. "He did fine. I'd let him do it again."

"Don't listen to him, I was scared the whole time," Machiavelli said, leaning over the phone. "Just like this morning when we nearly plunged to our deaths."

"Ooh, were you driving again?"

Machiavelli huffed a little at that. "No. Billy brought us up in an airplane. We did all sorts of tricks and flips. I've never been so grateful to be returned to solid ground again. My god." He began describing the tricks to the Shadow, Billy adding details and clarifications as he talked. Getting sleepy, he lay down on the couch, surprising Billy when he rested his head in the man's lap. After a moment, the outlaw shifted so that Machiavelli could be more comfortable. And, towards the end of the conversation, he felt a swell of happiness hearing a burst of laughter from Scatty. He had never been entertaining in the same way that Billy was easily, so it was a pleasant feeling for him that he could make the Shadow laugh.

Briefly, the Flamels came on and Machiavelli spoke to them, but too soon it was time for them to go, having made dinner reservations in town. After they hung up, Niccolò could hear his own stomach rumble. Billy glanced down at him, combing a hand through Machiavelli's thick hair. "Hungry?" Machiavelli nodded. "We could order a pizza, but it might take a half hour. Think you can wait that long?"

Machiavelli nodded again. Billy's touch was making him more tired and he struggled to wake up. "I think I'll take a shower while we're waiting."

"Good," Billy agreed. "You'll feel better once you've taken a hot bath." He snagged the phone off the coffee table and tapped in Machiavelli's password.

"Why would I take a bath and not a shower…" he trailed off, realization dawning on his features in one unhappy rush. "Billy! I just realized. We don't have any running water," Machiavelli all but whined. "How am I going to take a bath with no water?"

"I told you we have a pump out back," Billy said patiently. He thumbed through the food options on Machiavelli's phone. "I'll even help you fill up the tub." He caught sight of the Italian's dissatisfied expression and laughed a little. "Mac, you've lived before homes had electricity and running water. Like, way before," Billy said, emphasizing the word way. "I'd think you'd be used to it."

"I am used to it," Machiavelli grumbled under his breath. "That's why I don't like it."

"Well, think of it like camping, but better. Anyways, you'll feel better when you're clean." Billy hauled a bucket of water in and walked past him to the bathroom. "Hey, when we're safe we should go camping together."

Niccolò bit down on the inside of his cheek to keep from saying anything. He sincerely doubted that he was the type to enjoy camping, just as he doubted that this bath full of well water was going to be relaxing. He pressed up against the wall as Billy trundled past again. "Don't worry, I know how to heat up the water with my aura," the American called as he went past.

"How are you going to do that?" Machiavelli asked, trailing after the outlaw. "Let me take that," he offered, indicating the last bucket. Billy held it out for him; the minute the outlaw let go of it, the bucket crashed to the ground slopping water on both of their feet. "On the other hand, maybe you should take this one too."

"Too heavy?" Billy asked cheekily. Machiavelli huffed at him, silently chastising his abysmal arm muscles. "Anyways, I know a trick," the Kid explained. "Watch." Dumping the last bucketful into the tub, he set it aside and held up his hands. With a smile at the Italian, the room came alive with the smell of cayenne peppers. His hands glowed red and he dropped his hands into the water, where the water began to bubble and boil.

After a moment, Billy withdrew his hands, shaking them dry. "Alright, I'll be out here. Oh, and don't drain the water when you're done. I want to at least rinse if we're going to be driving all day tomorrow."

"Okay," Machiavelli said tiredly, already starting to strip down. He waited until the door clicked shut before he dropped his pants and stepped out of them. He groaned as he sank into the tub.

Knowing that Billy was going to be climbing in after him, he struggled to keep the water as clean as he could. This meant certain concessions on his part, but he mused that he could continue his activities after the outlaw fell asleep.

Leaning forward, he scrubbed at his hair. The shower he'd taken the day before seemed like a long time ago. He efficiently scrubbed at his upper body, but couldn't help lingering longer down below the water. Sinking into the water, he closed his eyes for what felt like seconds, but more likely was a couple minutes in itself.

He shot up again at Billy's light knocking. "Hey," he called. "What's up?" Billy's voice was muffled through the door, but he could just make out the other man telling him that dinner had arrived. "I'll be out in a second," he shouted.

He sloshed out of the tub, looked around and cursed when he saw that he had forgotten clean clothes. Unwilling to put his dirty clothes back on, he wrapped a towel around his waist and stalked out.

"Bit overdressed for the occasion, aren't you?" Billy snarked, taking in his appearance.

"Oh, shut up," he groused, sliding onto his seat at the table.

"You're not going to get dressed now?" the Kid asked with some surprise. He whistled, a high note and plated a couple of pieces of pizza which he slid in front of Machiavelli. "That's not the Mac I know and love. He's uptight."

Mac shook his head. "Not now, I'm hungry." But he made sure the towel was still covering his dignity before he snagged one of the pieces. "We're going to have to do laundry soon though," he added as an afterthought. Jerking his head in the direction of his room, he added, "I'm almost out of clothes.

"Is that towel all you have left?" Billy joked.

"I forgot to bring clean clothes in with me," Machiavelli said by way of explanation. He reached across the table for another slice. "Billy? When we get to your place, where I assume you'll have the amenities turned on, can we have some real food?"

"You mean, not delivery food?" Billy asked, gnawing through a pizza crust and licking his fingers. "Sure. What do you want?"

The Italian shrugged. "I'll think about it," he promised. "Now, I'm tired."

"I thought you were hungry?"

"I was and I am. I'm both. I think I'm going to go to bed right after this."

Billy nodded, looking tired himself. "That's probably for the best. We're going to be on the road all day tomorrow. But we'll be in Philadelphia by Friday. Isn't that good news?" He grinned.


	85. Chapter 85

"Wakey, wakey, hands off snaky," Billy chirped cheerfully, grabbing Machiavelli's toes and giving them a small shake.

Machiavelli groaned and grumbled as he came awake. "Billy, that's not very sophisticated," he scolded.

"Big words from the man with a death grip on the little prince," Billy retorted, moving deeper into the room to open the curtains at the window. He laughed at Machiavelli's exclamation when the shades came up, the room suddenly in blinding lights. "I don't know much Italian, but that sounded like an expletive to me."

Niccolò shifted unhappily out of his comfortable position. He held up his hands. "To quote your English saying, look, ma, no hands."

Billy laughed. "Yes, but forgive me if I skip our usual morning handshake today," he quipped right back. His eyes were alight with mischief, a merriness dancing behind his eyes. He sat on the edge of the Italian's bed, talking to him and Machiavelli got comfortable again, folding his arms behind his head so that he was propped up enough to see the American. "Anyways, rest as much as you want. We're going to have a long day today." He sighed, stretching his neck to the left. There was a small pop and he did the other side.

"We're going to be driving for basically the whole day, aren't we?" Machiavelli asked, absently rubbing at his stomach. Billy nodded. "Are we going to stop anywhere?"

"I didn't have anything planned, but if you see something, feel free to stop me." Billy grinned at him. "You're going to be happy, honey. I called up the Philadelphia utility company early this morning. All of the utilities are guaranteed to be turned on, Friday morning at the latest."

Machiavelli gave a tiny smile, closing his eyes. "Good. No more well water baths."

"Right." The Kid got off the bed, and Niccolò looked up, feeling the bed rise a little. He watched with open interest as the outlaw went through a series of stretches. His eyes trailed lower at the flash of flesh that appeared and he decided he'd better get a grip.

"So are we going to get started or not?" Billy asked, straightening up and turning around to look at him. He settled his hands on his hips, attempting to look stern, which was really a goofy look for the American.

"No," Machiavelli said decisively. He turned over in bed, pulling the comforter more snugly around him. He closed his eyes. "We should sleep more."

"Sleep more?" Billy asked in disbelief. He waited a moment for the Italian to spring up and say he was kidding, but Machiavelli just seemed to sink further into mattress, sighing a little as he settled in. "Hey, come on," the Kid cajoled, grabbing Machiavelli's side and giving him a rough shake. "It's already nine in the morning. We're going to be driving all day. You can sleep in the car."

"Want to sleep here," Machiavelli mumbled back. "Comfortable. Go away." He covered his head with the pillow.

Billy tugged the pillow away, tossing it to the top bunk. He practically had to rip the blanket out of the Italian's grasp, bunching it up at the bottom of the bed. Even after all of his covers were missing, the lanky teenager curled into a tight ball and closed his eyes. "Mac. Mac!" Billy insistently harassed the other immortal. "I'm going to get dressed now. When I come back, you'd better be up," he warned.

Five minutes later, he still wasn't up. "Teenagers," the Kid whispered furiously. He considered his options, his mind momentarily skittering over the bucket in the bathroom, before deciding that would cause too much mess. He grabbed Machiavelli under the armpits and dragged him off the bed. The dark-haired immortal refused to find his feet until Billy threatened to drop him on the ground, then he reluctantly stood on his own. "What do you want to wear, Mac, your suit or sweatpants?" Billy asked, thumbing through the teen's bag. "That's all you have left."

"Sweatpants," Machiavelli said sleepily.

"Mac, are you feeling alright?" Billy said, feeling his forehead.

"I'm going to be sleeping in the car. I don't want to wrinkle my suit," Machiavelli defended himself, snapping the waistband into place. He struggled into a t-shirt and looked around for his shoes. "I'll dress up when we're living in the city again. That'll be nice."

"You going to miss this place?" the outlaw asked, grabbing Machiavelli's bag. Shutting the shades again, he led the teenager out, closing doors as they went past them.

"Not especially," Machiavelli said. "I'm always going to remember it as the place where I took a well water bath." He climbed in the car

"See, this isn't so bad," Billy said, shutting the trunk and coming around to the driver's side. "You can rest more, I'd just prefer you curtail your earlier operations until a later point of time, I mean these are genuine leather seats…" Machiavelli whacked him upside the head and Billy grinned happily. "Nobody can say you haven't been getting your fresh air, Mac."

"Mmm."

"Why are you so tired anyways?" Billy asked, curiosity alive in his voice, even as he backed the Thunderbird out of the driveway and shifted gears, spinning down the road. "You went to bed before me last night."

Machiavelli cracked one eye open. "I, uh, didn't go to sleep right away." He pulled the blanket up over his shoulders- the morning air was still fairly cool to his Mediterranean blood.

"Why, what could you possibly be doing… ah. I know what you were doing. Good for you buddy." Billy laughed. "This certainly speaks to your endurance. And to think that I thought you were just an old man when we met." He turned onto the highway, pressing down hard on the accelerator.

"I don't need any encouragement, thanks," Machiavelli said somewhat sourly. He made a big fuss over smoothing the blanket out flat.

Billy was still grinning. "You rest now, you've been through a lot of abuse."

"Oh, shut up."

"Self-abuse, but all the same…" The Kid patted his knee. "We can stop for lunch in Minneapolis. I imagine there's still a few malls there, it being the capital and all." He looked over. "It'll take about four hours to get there from here. Think you can last that long?"

"Machiavelli nodded. "Sure. I'm probably going to nap a while anyways. You can leave the radio on though. It doesn't bother me."

"Okay, honey."

"Hey, Billy?" Machiavelli asked with his eyes shut. "Are you going to keep calling me sweetheart and honey and such when I'm an old man again?"

"I won't if you don't like it," Billy promised. "I just got in the habit of it. Sorry about that." They drove for a little while in silence, the Kid keeping quiet so that Machiavelli could rest. "Mac, you asleep?" He shook his head. "Are you going to be an old man again? Like, go the whole way back?"

"I hadn't thought of it," Niccolò said back, his eyes still shut. "We never really spoke of it after you initially told me. You were kind of ambiguous about what you wanted from me."

"I like you younger," Billy proffered. "But I liked you when I first met you, too. So I guess for the moment, we just let it be?"

"Yeah."

Billy fiddled with the radio station as it got increasingly obscure with static. He found a different station, playing a lot of oldies. "Get some sleep now, sweetheart, you need it. I'm sorry I've been keeping you up."

Billy stopped at the mall early that afternoon. The rain had held off so far, but the skies were looking slightly threatening, so the Kid parked his car as close to the building as they could. They ended up cutting through a kitchen supply store and had to wend their way back to the food court, swinging around numerous kiosks and teen shops. At the food court, they split off in two directions,

"You really got pizza?" Machiavelli asked disbelievingly when they sat down again, at a table under a large potted tree. Next to them, a play area was resplendent with children crying, screaming, laughing, and kicking. "Billy, that's all we've been eating for the past week."

"I like pizza," Billy mumbled around a slice. "Nothing better."

Machiavelli tutted, opening his container of teriyaki. He nimbly worked a pair of chopsticks, trying to ignore Billy who was giving him puppy eyes. "I thought you liked pizza," he grumbled at last, handing the outlaw his chopsticks.

"I like a lot of different kinds of food. I'm a growing boy," Billy said primly, trying and failing to pick up the chicken with the chopsticks. He kept dropping the food. Machiavelli let him go as he looked kind of cute, sticking out his tongue in concentration, but decided to intervene when Billy began to stab with the utensil. "I don't know how you do that," he observed, as the Italian picked the food up easily.

Machiavelli stuffed a rather large piece of chicken in the outlaw's mouth. "You need to experience a little more of the world, Billy. This isn't exactly rocket science."

Billy swallowed thickly. "I eat Japanese food, I just don't see the merits of eating with a stick. Besides the value of showing off for your friends, that is." He tapped Machiavelli's plate. "How do you plan on eating the rice for instance?" So saying, he again opened his mouth expectantly.

Niccolò rolled his eyes and gave him another piece of chicken. "It's sticky rice. It all sticks together." He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "You want some of the rice too, don't you?" Billy nodded his head vigorously. "Why didn't you order yourself some then?" he asked, sounding exasperated.

"I'm hungry, I might." Billy chewed through his pizza crust. "In fact, I will. Want anything else to eat? There's a sub place." Machiavelli shook his head, then thought about it and snagged the back of the American's jeans before he got away. "Get me a sub and I'll split my chicken with you."

"Deal." Billy scurried off.

~MB~

"Are we driving into a storm?" Machiavelli asked, ducking down so that he could see the sky above them. He assessed the darkening air with a critical eye. "It seems awfully ominous out there."

"The forecast said there'd be some rain," Billy said offhandedly. "Hopefully, we'll miss most of it." He paused. "But yeah, it does look kind of bad out there. If it gets too awful, we can always find a place to stop for the night."

"Is this roof going to be enough to keep us safe, if we're driving through a lightning storm," Machiavelli wondered out loud.

"Sure," Billy said easily. "Besides, I have a few immortal friends in this area. We could always crash at one of their places for the night if it gets really bad."

Lightning forked in the sky above them, looking like a tree turned upside down. One area of the sky looked particularly bleak. "What's your definition of really bad?"

"Not this," Billy said cheerfully.

Around them, the wind was picking up. Glancing out his window, Machiavelli could see the trees that were lining the highway. They were swaying ominously. "Billy, talk to me about something," he begged as rain began to spatter the roof.

"About what?" Billy had to raise his voice to be heard over the wind and the rain.

"Anything- you talk a lot. Pick a topic and run with it," Machiavelli commanded.

Instead of being insulted, Billy took to the challenge like a fish in water. "Okay, Mac. You know, I was thinking, you're going to be turning eighteen on Saturday. We've got to do something to celebrate. First, I was thinking bounce house. We never did that, but then I got thinking. You're going to be an adult. We have to do something adult."

The Italian stiffened as another thunderclap broke in the distance. "What are you thinking of, Billy?"

"We should go to a bar or something," Billy said excitedly.

"Isn't that illegal for me? I'm just turning eighteen," Machiavelli traced quotes around the number. "Don't you have to be twenty one?"

Billy waved a dismissive hand. "We've got an entire suitcase full of fake IDs for you. Besides you're not really eighteen and they're more likely to card me." He scowled. "They still do sometimes."

That made Niccolò laugh. Outside, the rain was picking up, drumming steadily on the top of the car. Billy had to crank up the windshield wipers, so that they whipped back and forth. Still, the sightline outside was minimal. "Where does your friend live?" the tactician wondered as the rain poured down on them.

"Mm, not too far from here under normal conditions, but at the rate we're going, probably an hour or so." Billy's voice was momentarily drowned out by a crash of thunder. "Everyone's slowed down cause of the storm conditions. Which isn't necessarily a bad thing. You're the one always telling me immortal not invulnerable."

"True. Should we get off the highway?"

"No, we're actually safer now here than we would be on the backroads. This is higher up and has a better irrigation system. I bet a lot of the backroads are flooding right now," Billy calculated. "Don't you worry, Mac, I'll always keep you safe."

Watching Billy, he realized that the other man seemed to be looking for something as the rain pressed down harder. At last, when Machiavelli was completely convinced the outlaw was planning to just drive through the storm, he made a small sound of recognition and pulled onto an exit ramp. "Where are we going?" the Italian asked, looking over at Billy expectantly.

"Storm's getting too bad. We're going to stop at a friend's house for the night," Billy explained, easing onto the backroad carefully. He turned on his high beams and practically had to drive down the middle of the road to stay out of the enormous puddles that were forming on the sides. "Who would have thought we'd get this much rain, this suddenly?" he exclaimed as the right side of the car dipped into the water, sending a massive wave up as they went. "It looked nice this morning."

"I think we drove right into it," Machiavelli observed, wincing as they heard thunder nearby. "So who's your friend?"

"Maybe you know her? Zelda? Zelda Fitzgerald."

"Zelda Fitzgerald? F. Scott Fitzgerald's wife is an immortal?" Billy nodded. "I didn't know that!"

"Well, you didn't have much information on me, either did you? You seem to underestimate us American immortals," Billy teased. "I should have gotten at least a book in your secret stash. I mean, I'm a legend and you're just summer reading."

Machiavelli ignored the jab, focusing on the new information like it was a delicate dessert. He was momentarily distracted from the looming storm. "Is the author an immortal too?"

Billy shook his head. "No, and I understand that's kind of a sore spot with her, so we don't speak of it very often. But Zelda's kind of like a crazy great-aunt to me. You know the kind, sends me Christmas cards when she remembers, doesn't always. Interesting person, but not totally reliable."

"Are you friends with a lot of immortals?" Machiavelli asked, feeling woefully inadequate when he considered his solitary lifestyle over the past couple hundred years.

"Mm," Billy hemmed. "I wouldn't say I'm great friends with a lot of them, but I know quite a few and we're friendly. Black Hawk and those guys I mentioned when we were going to Alcatraz, those are my main friends. But Zelda takes care of me whenever I come through."

"Didn't she have a lot of mental health problems?" Machiavelli asked quietly.

"Quite a few," Billy said, sounding graver than he usually did. "I visit every once in a while, but never stay long. Sometimes she, uh, switches. But still, she'll take care of us for the night. And I've been meaning on getting in touch with her, check in, you know." He reached blindly for the other's knee, giving it a slight squeeze. "I think you'll like her, crazy personality aside."

Machiavelli nodded. After much navigating on Billy's part, they eventually came to a stop before an old Victorian home. "Here we are," Billy said, stopping the engine. He sounded a lot more cheerful than Machiavelli felt. Glancing out at the house before them, the Italian immortal felt a feeling of foreboding. The house didn't look particularly well kept, with scraggly bushes in the front and a pane missing from one of the attic windows. "Did she know we were coming?" he asked Billy. The Kid shook his head, sucking on his teeth slightly. Tilting his head back and forth, he made a gesture with his hand. "With Zelda, it's really no use planning for the future. You just kind of have to show up. He leaned forward, looking at the sky. "I don't think it's going to slow down at all. We should just make a run for it."

"I'm going to get the bags out of the trunk. You run to the porch. I'll be there in a minute," Billy instructed. "And, go!" They both opened their doors. Machiavelli took off towards the house, taking the steps two at a time to dive under the cover of the roof. He turned back to watch Billy's progress. The American snagged the duffle bag from the trunk and practically flew towards his friend, laughing the whole way. Getting to the porch, the two looked at each other. Machiavelli was decidedly wet, but Billy was absolutely soaked. "Nice weather," he croaked.

"Billy, you look like you jumped in a lake," Machiavelli sympathized.

The American did. All of his hair was pressed flat against his face, his t-shirt clinging to him and dripping a continuous river down his body. He pulled his hand across his face, trying to dry his visage, but it helped very little. "Well, there's no helping it. Let's hope she's home."

It took several minutes of banging on the door to get an answer. Machiavelli suspected that the house's occupant couldn't hear them knocking over the sound of the wind and the rain. At last, a light appeared from inside the house and the silhouette of someone approached the door. Unconsciously, Machiavelli came to stand behind Billy, even though he was now significantly taller than his companion. He reached forward to hold the American's hand discreetly.


	86. Chapter 86

AN: So here's Zelda. I'm always a bit nervous introducing OCs as I don't like them much myself when I read other fanfics, so I welcome your constructive criticism on her. I hope I did her justice as she is a terribly interesting historical figure. Anyways, let me know! Enjoy!

* * *

Billy, for his part, grinned nervously when the door finally opened. Whoever had opened it had only done so a crack, so Billy looked through that. "Evening, Mrs. Fitzgerald. It's Billy Bonney, remember me?"

A small woman peered out at them from the chink in the door. "No," she said sharply and made to shut the door. The Kid deftly caught it before it closed all the way, but made no attempt to open it further.

"Mrs. Fitzgerald, we met about fifty years ago at this point. I helped you repair the house. I remember you liked the green room in the back, in particular." He waited.

The door creaked open a little bit more and Machiavelli saw the other immortal in clear contrast for the first time. She was petite with a fine bone structure, her hair bobbed. Zelda Fitzgerald squinted at them suspiciously. "How do you know about my green room?" she asked, her voice raspy from apparent lack of use.

"I helped make it for you," Billy repeated patiently. "I know I'm kind of a sight right now, being as wet as I am, but I think you might remember me if I could get dry." He gestured to the storm behind them. "Zelda, we were hoping to spend the night here. We'd be gone by morning," he enticed. "Please?"

"Who's he?"

Billy looked behind him at Machiavelli. "This is my best friend, Niccolò Machiavelli. He's a great guy and probably a better guest than me."

"I thought your friend was a big Indian," Zelda pulled the door open and wandered down the hall, which was apparently their invitation to follow her in. Billy grabbed the bag and stepped over the threshold. Machiavelli wanted to be a little more cautious, but was prompted to follow by a sudden gust of wind. He pulled the door shut behind him.

"You do remember me," Billy said happily. "Listen, ma'am, let me and my friend settle in and I'll come down and make you a cup of tea. We're just going to stay together in the sailboat room." She made no sign that she heard him, but Billy grabbed Machiavelli by the shoulder and pushed him towards the stairs. "Our room's on the third floor."

Machiavelli kept a strong grip on the banister as they made their way up. Despite the fact that Billy had said he'd done work on the house, it looked like it had fallen in some disrepair. He knew that Billy could see that too, by the way Billy's head swiveled as they reached each landing. It wasn't until they were safely ensconced in the room that Billy had mentioned that either of them spoke. "She's certainly different," Machiavelli said mildly. He hesitated. "Is she mad?"

"Little bit crazy, yeah," Billy agreed softly. He sneezed. "She goes back and forth like that a lot. Sometimes she recognizes you, sometimes not. But there are some moments when she's completely clear." He opened the bag. "I just grabbed the one bag, cause I didn't want to be stuck out in the rain for too long. It's all your stuff, so if you don't mind, I'm going to borrow some clothes." He sneezed again. "Unless you want me to die of hypothermia."

"Go ahead," Machiavelli told him, already beginning to strip out of his wet clothes. He brushed at his chest, trying to get dry. Beside him, Billy snagged one of the shirts that needed to be washed and used it as a makeshift towel, so he decided to follow the American's lead. In a rare display of modesty, Billy drifted off behind a big folding screen to change.

Dressed again, Billy held out a hand to Machiavelli. "Well, ready for an evening you probably won't forget for a while?" he asked.

Machiavelli grinned. "Bring it on."

"Well, I think it goes without saying that there's no TV in this house," Billy mumbled as they left their room. "But I'm sure Zelda will find new and interesting ways to entertain us."

Machiavelli nodded. As they reached the ground floor of the house, he drew close enough to Billy that when the Kid stopped short, he crashed into him. Billy grabbed him by the scruff of the neck to prevent him from falling. "Sorry," Machiavelli gasped, massaging his neck. "Hello, Mrs. Fitzgerald," he said, injecting a polite tone to his voice as he saw the female immortal.

"Can we come in?" Billy asked, poking his head into the room.

Zelda whirled around the room, a flurry of energy in contrast to her earlier reticence. While she didn't exactly invite them in, she began to speak with Billy, so they took it as an acceptance and came through the threshold. Machiavelli was trying to listen to what the other two immortals were talking about, but got momentarily distracted by the paintings in the room. This was apparently a studio of sorts for the author's wife and was in remarkably good condition, considering how the rest of the room looked. He peered into the pictures, transfixed.

Mrs. Fitzgerald clearly enjoyed drawing dancers; most of her paintings contained at least one, but they were grotesque in their own nature, with some bloated, others skeletal thin. And the faces- some laughing, some crying; facets of emotions caught in fractures. In a way, the pictures had their own, very strange charm. As he moved around the room, he dimly remembered that she hadn't been received well when she first began putting her paintings out there. At the time, he'd paid very little attention to it, feeling that he'd had more important matters to attend to. Now, he couldn't help wondering how many other immortals were out there, veiled by reputations of lunacy.

It was only after he'd made a full circuit of the room that he realized he was alone in the room. Panic blossomed in his chest. _Where had Billy gone?_ He strode out into the hallway and listened hard, but the thick walls of the Victorian house shielded any sound that might have escaped. It didn't help matters that while the hallway was unlit, all the other rooms streamed bright light.

He edged down the hallway and glanced into the first room, on the right. _This house is deceptively large_, he thought, taking in the small ballroom. From the outside, he would never have imagined all these rooms, but here they were. Billy wasn't in this room, but he took a moment to look around anyways. Long velvet curtains reached from floor to ceiling, blocking out the outside world. The room was mostly free of furniture with an S couch at one end, veiled in white sheets. Around the walls were several small tables on spindly legs, sporting dusty statuettes and porcelain figurines. The walls had minimal decorations on them, with a large painting on the opposite wall and scroll carved woodwork at the floor and ceiling. Overall, it spoke to a former opulence, but seemed saddened by the curtains and coverings. Machiavelli didn't stay here long.

The room at the end of the hall must have been the green room that Billy had referred to. At the time, Niccolò had thought Billy was referring to the paint color on the wall, but now he realized the outlaw had meant something entirely different- plants. There was a solitary chair in the middle of the tiny room, facing a wall of windows; besides the chair, there was merely a precarious pathway amidst many, many plants. This room was an antithesis to the room he had just exited, crowded with plants and planters, each overflowing with green stalks. Ivy clung to the walls and he wondered if Billy had known it was going to look like this when he helped the female build the room.

That left the door on the left of the hall. Niccolò retraced his steps and entered this last room, sighing in relief when it was just a dining room. At the other end of the room was another doorway, and through this, he could see Billy sitting with the other American immortal. Not so much as glancing around, he picked his way through and stopped by Billy's side.

"Hey, you found us," Billy noticed happily. He pulled out a chair next to him. "Sit down, I'll get you a cup of tea." He got up.

Machiavelli folded himself into the chair. An uncomfortable silence sprung up as soon as Billy left. He wasn't quite sure to say to the petite immortal in front of him and to judge from her expression, she was uncomfortable too. "Thank you for letting us stay here," he said. Zelda jerked her head. "I don't really like driving in the lightning, myself," he continued. "Makes me a little nervous."

"I never minded it." Her voice was a lot softer than he had imagined it would be. "Scott and I used to be wild. We'd drive around on top of cars." She frowned. "Can't be nervous if you're fearless. I was fearless once. Not anymore."

Machiavelli couldn't really think of what to say to that, but luckily was spared a response by Billy, who placed a mug in front of him. "See, Mac, I've never done that at least," he said joyously.

"That's true," Machiavelli agreed dubiously. He poked him on the side of the head. "I don't want you to get any ideas."

Billy laughed. "I won't." He looked over at Zelda. "Are you going to show Machiavelli the rest of your house? Zelda?" She was staring dreamily at the ceiling fan above them and was either ignoring them or didn't hear them at all. A second call from Billy, accompanied by a tap on the shoulder, brought her back out of her reverie. Billy repeated the question.

"Sure," she said, rising out of her seat. Machiavelli had read the Great Gatsby before and wondered now how much she had influenced her husband's writing, her movements reminding him of that line in the book 'two women buoyed up as though on an anchored balloon.'

They followed her, Zelda floating from room to room. When they got to the ballroom, she stood in the very middle of the room and spun around, her arms stretched out as though trying to reach the walls. For a moment a rare smile broke through on her melancholy face. It all struck him as being very sad and he knew now why Billy had been reluctant to stop here, even for one night. Still, looking over at the outlaw, he could see the other man smiling.

Billy followed her to the middle of the room and held out a hand to her. She dipped in an elegant curtsy and took his hand. Niccolò sank onto the couch, watching them waltz around the perimeter of the room. He cocked his head, trying to make out what he was saying to her, but couldn't quite hear.

He stood as their dance ended and hovered on the edge of the room, unsure if he should go over. Billy glanced over Zelda's shoulder and smiled at him. He waved him over. "Mac's a good dancer, too," he told the female immortal. "Right, Mac?" Machiavelli blushed and shook his head. "Ah, he's shy. Well, we've seen your painting room and the green room in the back, how about the second floor?"

Zelda tilted her head, her eyes momentarily cloudy, then gave a short nod. She grabbed Niccolò's hand, surprising him, and dragged him towards a set of doors on the other side of the room that he hadn't noticed before. "You'll like this," she said decisively, and ducked out the door. They were suddenly in the front entranceway again and it seemed even darker in contrast to the bright lights of the ballroom.

Zelda was already ascending the stairs. Reaching the top, she spun around, Machiavelli really thought she was going to fall this time, and put her hands on her hips. "Coming?" she sounded lofty and imperious.

Billy touched the Italian on the small of his back as he passed. "It's alright," the other man said softly. "You will like this."

He climbed the steps, reaching the first landing. Directly across from the stairs was a door that had previously been closed that was now flung open. To his left were two doors, bedrooms, he supposed, and in between them a mirror that was dirty and cracked in half. But he was getting distracted again. Billy and Zelda were already in there. Machiavelli was, again, the last person to enter the room.

Zelda had been right, curiously. He did like this room, even better than the ballroom below. He had found himself inside of a small library, lined with bookshelves. _Nicholas would be in heaven_, he thought, glancing around for Billy and finding him sitting at a window seat. He dove down one of the narrow aisles between the shelves, looking at all the books. There was no apparent order to how the books were organized. He found ancient Greek texts, similar to those he had kept in his secret offices, next to Harlequin romance novels with the covers torn off. In particular, there seemed to be a lot of art books, some of them littering the ground as though Zelda had picked them up to read, then dropped them as she grew bored.

Edging down the second aisle, he began to find other items that seemed to have gotten mixed up amidst the novels. He found an old teddy bear, scattered wine glasses, what appeared to be the wheel of a bike next to a tome about the war of 1812, and inexplicably, a pair of men's underwear that he was careful not to touch. There was a window at the end of the third aisle and, glancing out, he was surprised to see that it was still raining. He had forgotten about the storm really, the thick walls muffling any outside noise.

He was halfway down the third aisle, a vague intention of getting back to Billy in his head, when the lights flickered off. Almost immediately, there was a rather blood curdling scream. Conjuring up his auric candle of light, he hurtled toward the noise. Bursting out of the aisle, he saw that Billy had made his red ball of light and was attempting to comfort Zelda, who was wringing her hands and practically wailing in despair.

He dropped to her side. "It's alright, Mrs. Fitzgerald," he said quietly, taking her hand. "You're not in any danger," he said, trying to comfort her. He cast his mind around, thinking of his daughter Bartolomea and her fear of the storms. _What did he use to tell her?_ _It seemed so long ago now, he couldn't remember._ "The thunder won't hit us in the house, you've got a nice place to keep you safe."

"Let me out. Let go of me," she screamed and he dropped her hand, but she continued to shout. "Undo the belts. I'll be good this time, I won't do it again. Scott!" He wasn't sure what was happening, but Billy got in her face.

"Billy, what are you going to-?" His voice died in his throat as Billy slapped her rather forcefully, but it seemed to get her attention. "Zelda, listen to me," Billy said gently, taking the hand that Machiavelli had let go. "You're not in that place anymore, I got you out of there. You're safe in your house, just like Mac said." Zelda didn't say anything, but she watched him carefully. "Would you like to look around your house, to be sure?" he asked her. She nodded. And so, Machiavelli found himself touring the house for the second time, except that in a bizarre twist of fate, it was Billy showing Zelda the place where she lived instead of the opposite.

They ended the strangest tour Machiavelli had ever been on by putting Zelda in her bedroom for the night. Machiavelli looked carefully out the window while the Kid tried to maneuver the woman into a nightgown. When he was at last certain that she was covered, he turned around again and watched Billy tuck her into bed. He winced badly when she looked up at Billy and asked timidly, "Who are you?" She accepted his answer blindly, seeming to understand that he was her friend as he said. The outlaw patted her hand kindly before letting the curtains to the bed draw shut.

Turning around, Billy put his finger to his lips and motioned the Italian to follow him. Machiavelli crept along as quietly as he could. Machiavelli thought they were going to go to bed, but was greatly relieved when he was led to the kitchen instead. Billy got a box of pasta out of the cupboard, frowned at the expiration date, and put a pot of water on the stove. Niccolò sat at the table watching him try to pull together a meal from the little food Zelda seemed to keep in the house. "You got her out of the asylum, Billy?" he asked at last.

Billy nodded, looking slightly troubled. "I told you that I can see people's auras pretty good. I mean, yours is just a ring of white around you, but Zelda's is bright yellow. I was passing through a town one time, about fifty years ago. They had the asylum patients out taking a walk. Most of them looked completely lost. But there was Zelda, shining in the middle of the group. I knew what she was right away."

"She's one of us," Machiavelli nodded.

"Right, so I knew I couldn't leave her there. I had to get her out." Billy put two plates of food down in front of them and sat beside Machiavelli. Over dinner, he described the place she'd been in and how he'd tricked them into letting him take her. At the end of the meal, the American immortal leaned back and sighed. "I don't visit her very often though. I couldn't stay for very long. Just the couple of hours we've been here has been tiring, hasn't it?" Machiavelli nodded, glancing at his watch. He felt like he'd been there for a day or two, instead of just four hours. Billy cleared his throat. "Want to play a game of checkers in the library? She keeps a board in the fifth aisle." He smiled wanly, so Niccolò agreed.

~MB~

"Here's the bedroom," Billy said, leading him up the stairs to the top floor.

"Bedroom? There's only one?" Machiavelli asked tiredly. He ducked into the room at the top of the stairs and looked around. He had to admit, it was pretty big, so it wasn't like they were going to be right on top of each other. But still, there was only one bed and the Italian immortal wasn't sure this was the best thing to quell his raging hormones.

"Think you can handle it?" the outlaw joked.

He chose not to answer that. "This has certainly been an interesting evening," Machiavelli whispered, climbing into bed with Billy. The Kid still hadn't explained to him why he'd insisted on putting them both in the same bedroom when there was obviously many options available, but stuck in this rather creepy, squeaky old house, he wasn't going to question it. Billy was already lying down on the canopy bed, but Machiavelli had been looking around the room, prowling in the corners where various knickknacks were hidden. At last, he climbed under the covers. "Today wasn't boring, I'll give you that. She doesn't talk very much though."

"Why are you whispering, Mac?" Billy asked sleepily. "Zelda's one floor down." He yawned and flipped onto his side, throwing an arm around the Italian immortal's shoulder.

Machiavelli lay very still for a moment, getting used to the casual contact with Billy. "Sorry. Uh, I guess I just found her a little more off putting than I thought I would." He raised his head a little. "You must too, you locked the door to our bedroom."

"Yeah, well, I have had my weird moments in this house," Billy breathed in his ear. Already, it would seem that the Kid was fading. "One time, I woke up in bed with her."

"What?"

Machiavelli's shout jolted Billy awake and the American sat up, looking, in the darkness, very off put. Machiavelli made several apologetic noises, coaxing Billy back down. It took a moment, but the American finally laid down, folding both of his hands over his stomach. He still seemed a little bit out of it with his explanation. "I didn't sleep with her, Mac. She just climbed in bed with me one night. I think she got confused."

"Ah."

Billy laughed a little. "Except for the memory lapses, paranoia, and you know, general schizophrenia, Zelda kind of reminds me of my mother. I try to visit every once in a while, so she won't be lonely, but it is kind of hard." He breathed in. "You saw all the damage on the second floor. That's new from the last time I was here. Back then, I repaired the house from the previous damage she'd done."

"Was it the process of making her immortal that broke her?" Machiavelli wondered, turning his body so he was angled towards the American.

Billy looked over at him. He squinted in the semi-darkness. "I think so. It's hard to say, cause she doesn't willingly talk about it. But I think she became immortal and she thought her husband would follow her, but the process, it well, ruined her," he said quietly. "So, she tried telling her husband what'd she done, but everybody thought it was just the rambling of a lunatic. After her husband died, she just kind of faded from view."

"That's sad."

"Try not to think of it." Billy tugged the blankets higher. "Are you going to be able to sleep tonight? With the lightning and the storm?"

"Yeah. I'm not afraid of lightning, it's just that out on the road, we seemed to be in unnecessary danger. But here I'm fine. As long as the house holds up, at least."

"I like lightning storms," Billy said. "Always have. Hey Mac, we're going to leave pretty early in the morning tomorrow. You should get some sleep."

"Okay."

"No more nightly activities, at least not tonight," Billy laughed. "I need you in top form tomorrow in case you have to take the wheel."

"You're not going to let that go, are you?"

"No."


	87. Chapter 87

They left in the early morning. Machiavelli asked if they were going to wait for Zelda to get up, but Billy shook his head. "It's better this way," he said mildly and Niccolò didn't question it, remembering the fear and pain in her eyes. The night with Zelda had been interesting, but also curiously painful, a reminder of what could have happened to any of them.

"Now we really have to do laundry," Machiavelli said instead, helping Billy lug their bag to the car. He looked around. "Today's a much nicer day." It was true. All the clouds of yesterday's storm had been wiped away, the sky a light blue. What clouds remained were wispy, like cotton candy pulled apart. "What day is it today? I'm losing track."

"Friday," Billy closed the trunk. "Do you want to drive?" He held out his hand, the keys on his palm.

Machiavelli considered carefully. "Just for a very little while." The Kid cheered. "Are we going into any high traffic areas?" he asked.

"Are you kidding?" Billy chuckled, buckling in at the passenger seat. "We're in Indiana. There's no traffic anywhere."

"Well, somehow I doubt that, but I'll take your word for it. But if we do hit any traffic, you promise you're going to take over?"

"Naturally," Billy agreed. He stretched out in the passenger seat, wincing a little when Machiavelli ground the gears. "You have to brake before shifting gears, honey." He put a hand over the Italian's, stroking the back of it with his thumb. "No need to rush. I'll walk you through it again."

With Billy's guidance, they were soon back on the open road, though it was admittedly a very hesitant Machiavelli that was guiding the car forward. He sighed in relief when he saw that there was nobody else on the highway yet, meaning that he merged onto the speedway with little trouble. "Feel free to go faster," Billy instructed cheerfully, glancing at the speedometer. Only the numbers up to 40 were lit up. "This is a 65 mph area."

"The conversion from miles to kilometers always messes me up," Niccolò mumbled. He pressed down on what he thought was the gas but accidentally it the brakes instead and they lurched forward in their seats. "Sorry," he gasped, massaging his neck.

Billy coughed before talking. "It's okay. Just remember me shouting gas is on the right. I'm sure that as we drive across the country, you're going to hear me say that a lot."

Machiavelli eased on the gas, bringing it past where they were before to about 60 mph. He gripped the wheel tightly, having to continually readjust the wheel to keep between the lines on the road. "Billy, are you sure you want me behind the wheel?"

"You're doing alright, Mac," Billy said reasonably. He reached for the wheel, holding it steady. "Get in the habit of just holding it, you don't usually have to make adjustments unless you're turning."

After an hour of nail biting driving in which they passed several cornfields and even more scarecrows, Machiavelli insisted Billy take over at driving. The Kid agreed rather readily, perhaps not finding his place in the passenger seat as restful as he'd initially thought. "At least there was nobody else on the road," he said as cheerfully as he could, pulling back onto the road after they had switched. "Did I wake you last night?"

"No," Machiavelli negated. He looked over at Billy. "Why, what did you do?"

"I just kept waking up," the outlaw complained. He rubbed at his eyes with one hand, but managed to keep the car going perfectly straight, Machiavelli noted with some jealousy. Billy continued on, unaware of the Italian's envy. "I kept thinking that there was something I had to do, like physically had to do, and I kept trying to do it, but I knew in my mind that I didn't have to do anything. It was weird. And annoying. You ever get that, Mac?"

"Occasionally," Machiavelli agreed cautiously. He wasn't sure quite what Billy was describing, but figured that he'd had plenty of problems sleeping over the years.

Billy stayed quiet for a minute, a record for him. "You talk in your sleep some, Mac."

Machiavelli's spine itched. "Did I say anything last night?" he asked, internally cringing as he imagined the various embarrassing things he might reveal when he wasn't conscious enough to stop himself. _If I had said something about Billy he'd have acted strange this morning_, he reasoned with himself. Too late, he realized that Billy had been talking again, but he hadn't been listening. "What?"

Billy laughed. "I said, you asked me to make you vegetable soup last night. I didn't even know you liked that so much, but we had quite the conversation." Now Machiavelli was really confused. The Kid picked up on his facial expression. "Yeah, that was my reaction, but you were explicit. You told me about the soup you wanted and which vegetables to put in it."

"Billy are you making this up?"

"I kind of wish I was," Billy said thoughtfully. "I was already kind of confused last night, what with my task that I was supposed to be doing and then you started telling me to make soup. Maybe that's what I thought I should be doing," he said suddenly as the thought occurred to him. He waggled his eyebrows at Machiavelli. "Huh?" He looked very pleased when he got a laugh out of the Italian immortal.

"We should sleep together more often," Machiavelli said sleepily. He realized too late how that must sound. "I mean, we'd have something to talk about during the day if we keep talking about more interesting things at night. Not that we should sleep together, sleep together. You know what I meant."

"No, Mr. Machiavelli, I thought you were trying to proposition me for sure." Billy's eyes were crinkled with merriment. "I thought you were suggesting we celebrate your eighteenth birthday in a completely different adult way." Next to him, Machiavelli had just taken a sip from his water bottle. At Billy's words, he accidentally spat the water out the window and, wiping at his now soaked shirt, frantically shook his head. The Kid seemed to be taking some pleasure from the tactician's discomfort. "So you're saying I stocked the house with condoms for nothing?"

Machiavelli made a squeaking noise that sounded very non-masculine. He took a deep breath of air and forced himself to calm down. "Perhaps we could have a water balloon fight," he suggested, but there was still an aura of pink to his face that he knew he wasn't going to be able to conceal.

"I'm sorry, Mac, I'll stop teasing you," Billy promised. The corners of his mouth twitched and Machiavelli saw him bite down on his lower lip with his oversized front teeth.

"Good," Machiavelli said, glancing out the window. Next to him, he could feel Billy positively thrumming with controlled glee.

"Perhaps we could use the lube for a slip and slide," Billy suggested, speaking rapidly as though that would make it better. "Sorry, slip of the tongue." He laughed again when Machiavelli punched him in the shoulder. "Okay, this time for real- I won't say anymore."

"I really doubt that."

"Mac-a-whack, I love you so much," Billy professed. He edged the car up to 80 mph so that they were nearly flying down the highway. "Don't you love your old friend Billy?"

"No."

~MB~

They ate lunch at a tiny roadside restaurant that didn't even have indoor seating. Billy insisted they eat outside of the car, so they ended up propped next to each other under an oak tree on the side of the parking lot. Machiavelli didn't want to get his dress pants dirty, so Billy very gallantly let him sit on the outlaw's jacket. The Kid himself was content to sprawl in the leaves pooling on the ground below the tree.

After lunch, Billy filled up the tank at a self-serve gas station across the way. It wasn't until they had been on the road for another thirty minutes that Machiavelli spoke up. "Billy, when do you think we're going to reach some form of civilization next?"

"Ah, not for a while," Billy posited. "Why, are you bored?"

"No, I have to use the restroom," Machiavelli said, crossing his legs.

"Why didn't you go at the gas station?"

Machiavelli sucked in air, making a hissing sound. "It was dirty. I couldn't go in there. I don't know when my next shower is."

"Oh, well, we're pretty far away from any public bathrooms right now, Mac. I'll pull over. You can use the field." Billy put his blinker on, but Machiavelli stopped him, looking scandalized.

"Use the field? We're not barbarians, Billy." Machiavelli looked rather like Billy had suggested he urinate on a picture of his mother. The Kid's suggestion to use a bottle met with an if possible, even more negative response. "I can hold it," Machiavelli decided at last. He shifted unhappily in his seat. "We've got to go through a town at some point."

"Well, if you're sure," Billy said, sounding a little hesitant. He pulled out onto the road again and pushed down on the gas. "I'll do my best to get you there fast, so long as you promise not to pee all over my car."

"I promise, I promise," Machiavelli said, sounding crabby. They got maybe ten minutes down the road, with a lot of squirming from the Italian before he gave in. "Pull over. I don't care anymore." He dove into the cornfield, making sure he was out of sight of the car before relieving himself.

Billy was waiting, looking out at the field on the other side of the car. Climbing in, Machiavelli noticed that they were absolutely surrounded by cornfields. Billy looked over at him when the door clicked shut. "Feel better?"

"I feel uncultured," Machiavelli said, taking a napkin out of the glove compartment and polishing his shoes. Billy chuffed at that. The Italian allowed a tiny grin, glad that Billy found most of the more anal things he said to be amusing. "I'll never forgive you for making me urinate in a field," the Italian said solemnly. "After all my ancestors toiled for, to be reduced to this maggot of a human being…"

"Ah, you'll get over it," Billy cut in, whistling along with the radio. "We're almost all the way there now. Just a couple more hours."

"A couple more hours," Machiavelli said to himself, sighing slightly. "Billy, are we going to stay long in Philadelphia? Or can I expect another one of these cross country trips in a week or so?"

"I don't know how long we'll stay there," Billy said, thoughtfully. "More than a couple of weeks unless we get found. Maybe a couple of months?" He didn't sound too concerned about it either way. "You'll like Philadelphia. It's a historical city, more culture in it than the cabin, so I imagine you'll be able to amuse yourself. I have a brownstone that I bought long before it was desirable to have one." He laughed.

"What are we going to do once we're holed up in your brownstone?"

Billy's eyes crinkled with thought. "I was hoping you'd teach me some of your tricks now. You're old enough that it won't drain your aura. And we'd be shielded by the other immortals that live in the city."

"Who else lives there?"

"I saw Ben Franklin once, but we don't socialize much," Billy said, grinning. "Though I understand he works as a Benjamin Franklin impersonator when money is low. Then there's Alain Locke, he's a cool guy, and Margaret Mead, she's quiet, but I think she gets together with Locke sometimes, I've seen them around town together. There's not a lot of people my age, so I'm kind of separate from them all…"

"There's not many immortals as young as you," Machiavelli agreed. "That's how I knew you were special when we first met." As soon as he said it, he blushed. "I mean, I thought there must be a good reason that you were made immortal."

"I think I just kind of stumbled into it, like most things," Billy said modestly. "Oh, and the other Billie is there, too, in Philadelphia. Can you guess which one I'm talking about?"

"Bill Roberts?"

Billy scoffed. "The real Billy the Kid? You're putting me on. No." He shook his head, looking affronted. "Billie Holiday. I used to go see her when she'd perform in bars. She was great." He cocked his head. "I take it back, I am friends with Billie sort of. I'll bring you to see her. She was the one who showed me Langston Hughes."

"Well, at least we know you're not prejudiced."

"No, well, I always was fascinated with Hispanic culture and they taught me a lot. Can't be prejudiced when there's too many good people in the world. Some people don't realize that." Billy glanced sideways at Machiavelli. "When you were off doing your thing, I was looking for a radio station. Came across a news station instead. You know that some poor homeless man in Boston was beaten by two men coming back from a ball game? Isn't that awful?"

Machiavelli was aghast. "Is he alright?"

"Don't know. They didn't say." The car was quiet, save for the engine, both men caught in their own thoughts. Machiavelli was divided amongst himself. It was awful to admit to himself, but as bad as he felt for the Boston man, he was still caught up in the elation of finally being old enough to hold a serious conversation with Billy again. He couldn't wait to settle in with the American in their new place, as much as he missed those other immortals.


	88. Chapter 88

AN: Two more chapters after this. Let me know how I'm doing!

They finally got into Philadelphia around eleven o'clock at night. By the time Billy pulled up to their new home, Machiavelli was asleep, curled up in the passenger seat. Some of the brighter lights of the city woke him briefly, but not enough to really rouse him from his slumbers. The outlaw parked in front of the dark building. He had to shake the other immortal awake, unable to carry Machiavelli up the stairs to the door. Machiavelli groaned and stumbled out of the car, stretching on the sidewalk. He looked up, trying to make out the building's façade. "Are we here?" he yawned.

Billy dug a flashlight out of the emergency box in the trunk. "Yep," he acknowledged, tossing Machiavelli a bag. He grabbed his bag of clothes too, and shut the trunk. "I'll get the other stuff tomorrow," he told the Italian, pulling the other immortal up the steps. The front door was hidden in a small alcove, making it impossible for them to see the doorknob in the darkness. Billy flicked on his flashlight and held it clenched between his teeth as he searched his key ring again. "You'll like this place. We're just off of Rittenhouse square."

Opening the door at last, he ushered Machiavelli over the threshold and shut the door behind them. He felt around for the light switch and they both blinked in the sudden wave of light. "Come on, honey, let's get you to sleep," Billy cajoled. He started up the stairs. "The bedroom's up on the third floor. Unfortunately, you'll be getting a lot of exercise on these stairs.

"Just one bedroom here too, huh?"

"Yeah, well it was just me in this house. By the time I got this place, I had realized that I was never going to have a child. So there was no use in trying to pretend anymore, I figured," Billy explained.

"That's kind of sad," Machiavelli commented. He grabbed Billy's hand, half as an expression of comfort and half to slow the outlaw down. He was lagging behind, sleepiness and the bag of clothes he was carrying, weighing him down.

Billy smiled at him. "Oh, it's just life. Give me the bag, I'll carry them all." He slipped an arm around Machiavelli's waist, helping to propel him up the last flight of stairs in silence. The Italian immortal didn't like experiencing Billy like this. The American immortal was supposed to be full of life, not sad. He started to say something, but Billy cut him off suddenly. "Come here!" He pulled the teenager over to the closet in the bedroom. "Look at this."

"What?" Machiavelli asked, beginning to grin. There was the life loving Billy that he knew and adored.

"You thought my ties were bad at the cabin, didn't you?" Billy said, pointing at him accusingly. The outlaw actually waited for the other immortal's nod. There was a twinkle in his blue eyes that made him handsome. His actions were grandiose and exaggerated. "Well, then you're going to hate these ties. I lived here during the 70's."

"Oh, no," Machiavelli groaned.

"Oh, yes," Billy answered him back. He beamed. "Going in!" he shouted. Momentarily, he disappeared into his closet. He came out a second later, clutching an incredibly wide tie with the faces of the Beatles floating over it. "Well? What do you think?"

Machiavelli closed his eyes and counted to ten. He was disappointed to find that the tie was still there when he opened them. Massaging his chest right about where his heart was, he sighed. "Billy, promise me you'll never wear that."

"I don't know, I still think it's kind of cool," Billy said wistfully, looking at the tie again. "Kidding, kidding," he added hastily, the look on his companion's face rather murderous. But he hung it up again with a certain reverence that the gray eyed immortal didn't like. "Hey, I've got the suit that goes with it."

"Please, please," Machiavelli cut him off. "I've seen too much already."

"Oh, but Mac, it's corduroy." He sneezed. "Wow, everything's dusty." He picked at the bedspread and sneezed again. Shaking his head, he grabbed Machiavelli by the shoulders and shook him good-naturedly. "We're not going to be able to sleep in this. I'll run to the store. Get some more sheets, another blanket."

"Okay," Machiavelli agreed blindly, swaying on his feet. "Want me to come with you?"

"Nah," Billy disagreed. "Do me a solid, strip the bed while I'm gone. You can just toss the old blankets in the corner."

"Thought you covered all your furniture in sheets for this reason," Machiavelli slurred, pulling at the blanket.

"Apparently, I forgot," Billy said cheerfully. "Be back soon!"

Machiavelli balled up the sheets. He tossed them in the indicated corner and sat on the bed heavily. He felt like his body was weighted down. Reaching down, he pulled off his shoes, then his socks, and lined them up at the bottom of the bed. He looked around the bedroom. This one was more bare bones than the cabin in Montana and he had to wonder if this was because of what Billy had said about living in the city and how he didn't like the enclosed spaces.

He was happy when he heard the other immortal come through the door again. Going out to the landing, he watched the immortal come up the stairs. "Need some help?" he called down.

Billy shook his head. "I left the other supplies downstairs. I'm just bringing up the bedspread and the sheets." He came up the last steps, exhaling sharply. "Maybe I'm out of shape, but going up and down these stairs is giving me quite the workout."

"That's how I felt in Paris," Machiavelli told him, snagging the smaller bag. "I think at a certain point, a lot of stairs is just a lot of stairs."

They had some trouble getting the bed made, neither of them being exceptionally good at such a domestic task. Twice, they tried putting the sheets on the wrong way. Finally, Billy found a tag that told them what end it was and they managed to get the rest of the set on with only a slight struggle. "We should clean this place up," Machiavelli suggested, pulling the comforter over more on the side he was standing on. "It's really dusty. That's why you keep sneezing."

"Yeah, well, that's something for tomorrow. Right now, I'm tired and you're tired. We should turn in. You're falling asleep on your feet. Tomorrow, we can figure out everything- the bed situation and the cleaning situation and everything," Billy rambled, tossing their bags in the corner. "But for tonight, we'll just share this one." He paused from where he was bent over the suitcase and looked up. "Unless you're uncomfortable with that. I could just stay up tonight."

"No, it'll be fine," Machiavelli said smoothly. The thought of sharing a bed sent small shivers of electricity down his back that he did his best to ignore. "Ah- do you have a side preference?"

Billy tilted his head with thought. "I want to be on your right side," he decided finally. He went back to his suitcase, extracting a t-shirt and a pair of underpants. "I'm going to take a shower."

"Okay," Machiavelli said, pulling the last of his clean clothes out of his bag, looking for something he could sleep in. He had a pair of dress pants left and a vest. He shook his head and decided that he'd have to sleep in his boxers tonight. Getting a hanger out of the closet, he hung his dress clothes up, shedding layers as he moved around. The rest of his dirty clothes he tossed in the pile with the old sheets.

Hearing the shower shut off, he dove under the covers. "That was really short," he commented to Billy.

Billy had a towel wrapped around his waist that he was keeping up firmly with one hand. He dug through their shower bag and grabbed his conditioner which he shook at the Italian. "Forgot this," he explained, ducking back into the bathroom. Machiavelli tried not to stare too much at the other man's retreating form, wondering if this was just a phase he was going through, brought on by the massive influx of hormones. He still hadn't decided when he heard the shower turn off for the second time.

By the time Billy came out of the bathroom, Machiavelli lay without moving very much, trying not to draw attention to himself. Under the covers, he reached his hand down and pushed firmly down on himself to prevent any indication of what was happening to his body. Once again, he wished that he had control of his body. He had simply forgotten how hormonal his body had been the first time around, or perhaps he had not had an object of attraction so close to him at the time. He decided it must have been the latter. There was a girl that he had been incredibly fond of, growing up, but he certainly hadn't had to sleep with her casually.

Either way, Billy puttered around the room, seemingly unaware of any of Machiavelli's inner turmoil. What he was doing, the Italian immortal couldn't quite make out because that would require him to sit up and he couldn't do that and conceal his bodily reaction at the same time. Furthermore, he had the sneaking suspicion that his body couldn't handle seeing anymore of the American than he already had seen.

Finally, _endlessly_, Billy was ready, it would appear. Machiavelli could smell the mint of his toothpaste when the American sighed. Billy stretched out his whole body- Machiavelli could feel the cowboy's leg brush against his- and turned off his light. They stayed in silence for a couple of minutes afterwards. Breathing carefully, Machiavelli let his erection subside.

"Did you have a good day today?" Billy asked. His hand groped for the Italian's under the covers and upon finding it, gave it a quick squeeze.

It took the Italian immortal a moment to answer, as he had felt his entire stomach dissolve at the touch of the American. "Yeah," he said, a little breathlessly. He smiled in the darkness and began to relax a little.

"Good," Billy grunted sleepily. He rolled back over onto his back, but kept his head turned so it was facing Machiavelli, despite the fact that his eyes were closed. His breathing evened out; the warlock could feel a slight warmth every time the man exhaled though. "What do you want to do tomorrow?" Billy asked, his words coming out like a slow tide, steady, but sluggish.

Machiavelli considered the question. "We should explore the city more. I'd like to go into the older sections."

"Okay."

It was very quiet on Billy's side of the bed now. Machiavelli listened to the gentle whoosh of air coming in and out of Billy's mouth. It would appear that the American had finally fallen asleep.

The Italian however, couldn't quite fall asleep yet. He lay in the darkness, savoring this moment of tranquility. Now, more than ever, he felt the slipping of time passing over him, dragging him forward to a life of loneliness. He resisted this forward movement, trying to stay paused in the present, held in this moment indefinitely. Tomorrow he was going to turn eighteen and with that, it would become harder every week to justify his staying with the American. Despite Billy's best reassurances, he knew that it would look increasingly odd for him to stay with the outlaw, once he was clearly and legally able to take care of himself again.

Billy mumbled incoherently, startling him from his thoughts. He turned over on his side so that the two immortals were facing each other again. Some dusty moonlight filtered in from the windows. As his eyes adjusted to the light, Machiavelli could make out the features of his bed companion more and more.

He wouldn't tell the American immortal about this, knowing Billy's sensitivity to the topic, but Billy actually looked far younger when he slept. Gazing at him now, the Italian had to wonder after about that young boy who had lived long ago, who had ridden horseback in the night and had gotten shot at in gunfights. How would Billy have turned out if his mother hadn't died so early on in his life? Would Billy have still become the person he loved so much? He lay awake thinking of the various consequences of time.

Had Billy's mother lived, the American surely wouldn't have become the outlaw he had. Machiavelli smiled, recalling Billy's stories of his loving but stern Irish mother. _She would have held Billy in line_, he decided. And, had he not become an outlaw, surely Billy wouldn't have been placed in the situation where he had earned his immortality.

It was enough to make his head spin. He couldn't help but feel that Billy's mother had been sacrificed for his own happiness. and with a guilty lurch of his stomach, he realized that both he and Billy should have been thinking about their loved ones and where to find them. If he continued to follow his train of thought- and he almost didn't want to- Billy wouldn't have become immortal without the death of his mother and they would have never met. And that thought filled the tactician with so much dread that he sat up.

"Billy," he called faintly. And waited, but Billy didn't wake up, just kept slumbering. "Are you asleep?" he said, only a bit louder, hoping and not hoping that he would accidentally wake the other man up. Still the American didn't reply and he decided that he was tired enough that he would fall asleep soon anyways.

Satisfied that his companion was soundly asleep, Machiavelli felt no qualm about giving him a kiss. He gently stroked Billy's face. "Buonanotte, amore mio. Ti amo. You subject me to a thousand and one thoughts."


	89. Chapter 89

AN: One more chapter after this. Kind of exciting, ist es nicht?

* * *

Machiavelli sighed happily. He could hear Billy downstairs, _moving about in the kitchen_, he guessed.

The sunlight crept into his bedroom, warming his face. A soft breeze caused the curtains to flutter. He burrowed deeper into the covers, unwilling to overcome his drowsiness. He didn't want to get up yet. It felt as though his morning hung in a delicate balance and, should he move too quickly, the balance would fall through.

Billy was singing along to the radio, but he was too far away for the Italian to hear what the song was. All he could hear was the clear cadence of the American's voice. Turning over, his had brushed against a contrasting fabric, discarded among the sheets. He reached down, feeling the denim of Billy's jeans and a t-shirt that the outlaw must have discarded after getting up. Something stirred inside of him. Before he could explore the emotion, he heard Billy coming up the stairs. He pushed himself back towards his side of the bed, watching the door.

"Oh, good, you're awake," Billy said, coming through the door. He was carrying a basket overflowing with laundry. "Happy 18th birthday! Ready to explore the city?"

Machiavelli was a little distracted by Billy's almost undressed body. He wished that the American had put on the clothes before coming up, instead of leaning over the pile now. "Uh, yeah," he said finally, tearing his gaze away from Billy's behind. The outlaw turned around to face him, smiling in a way that would have made the Italian immortal's knees weak and he silently thanked the gods above for the fact that he was still sitting in bed.

"You going to go around Philly in your boxers?" Billy joked happily. He fumbled with his belt for a moment, seeming to lose it in one of the back loops of his jeans. He crossed over to Machiavelli's side of the room, on the lookout for his shoes. "Mac? You gonna get out of bed?"

The teenager reluctantly nodded. He knew that as he got up, his developing erection was making a visible dent in boxers, but luckily for him, Billy seemed just as reluctant to make any remark towards the teenager's body as he was to hear it. "I just have to get dressed."

"Sure. I'll be downstairs." Billy grinned up at him, actually having to look up to see eye to eye to him.

"Okay." It was a small token of appeasement for Machiavelli's wounded pride to know that he was, at least, taller than Billy again. He proceeded into their bathroom, quickly shaving and brushing his teeth. He ran a comb through his hair, fixing the part. Glancing out into the bedroom, he made sure Billy wasn't still there before discarding his nightclothes in the wicker hamper and moved out into the room. He tucked his carefully ironed dress shirt into a pair of pants and decided he'd feel better if he was at least wearing a tie.

Thinking about ties reminded him of Billy's hideous collection and he idly wondered if he could get away with throwing them out, accidentally, of course. He decided this would be a personal mission for him. Doing up his own tie, he decided that he might look a little over dressed still, so he loosened the tie and undid the top button of his shirt. Slipping into dark brown loafers, he descended the stairs at last to join Billy.

The Kid was practically revving with energy. "You're going to like Philadelphia," he told the Italian, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "We don't have any food here, so I'll buy you something at one of the street vendors. Don't worry, it's good food."

Machiavelli nodded sleepily, poking his head out their front door. "Is it cold out?"

"A little bit now, but it's going to warm up," Billy told him cheerfully. "You're not going to want a jacket as soon as the sun comes out, believe you me." It helped that he bought the Italian a large coffee at the street vendor at the end of the passageway on which they lived. Machiavelli drank it black, looking around at the surrounding neighborhood. Billy had been right; they were in a nice neighborhood.

"It's called Rittenhouse Square," Billy said happily, indicating a sanctioned glen hidden among the skyscrapers. Machiavelli was rather surprised by the size of the park that his American friend was leading him into. They walked down one of the wide paths leading to the center of the square. "Nice, isn't it?" He bumped shoulders with Machiavelli. "It should be. They say that rent for Rittenhouse apartments are the 14th highest in the country. Guess not everybody could buy it in the 19th century when real estate was dirt cheap."

He got a smile from the Italian for that. "There are some advantages to being immortal," Machiavelli agreed mildly. He followed the Kid through the park and down a side road. They stopped in a bakery on one road and a delicatessen on another. This at least explained why Billy had been dragging a cart behind them. "Philadelphia kind of reminds me of Florence," Machiavelli mused as they walked down the streets. "With all the statues, I mean. Except all of your statues are clothed…"

"Yeah, we like our politicians to at least start out clothed," Billy agreed. He grinned. "Doesn't always work out so much, does it?" He laughed easily.

"Americans tend to be uptight about sexuality," Machiavelli continued. He grasped Billy's wrist briefly when he came to a stop in front of a suit shop. He looked longingly at the three piece suit in the front display. Realizing that he'd spent the entire day, just the day before yesterday, in sweatpants, he wondered what was wrong with him. _Suits would fix it_, he decided, assessing the dark blue suit on the right of the display.

"Well, there's being open about your sexuality and then there's fountains that shoot water out of ladies' tits," Billy countered, whispering the last part of the sentence like they were touring the local gerontology department instead of walking the streets of a vast city.

"Are you talking about the fountain of Neptune in Bologna?" Machiavelli asked distractedly. "Lactating Nereids were in fashion for a while. Billy, can I?"

"No suits today," Billy said gently. "We've got a lot of errands to run. Our apartment is not livable right now."

Machiavelli reluctantly followed his American counterpart down the sidewalk. "But someday soon, Billy? Promise me?"

"Yeah, Mac, soon you'll be the man I first met those few months ago."

"The man you met those months ago was wearing a suit," Machiavelli persisted hopefully. He decided to coax the outlaw, whose resolve seemed to be slowly fading as the weeks past. "We're in a big city now. I'll blend in. And it's like I said before, you can have the suits when I get too tall for them. Right now we have similar frames."

"I still think it'll make you stand out a bit," Billy said, putting a hand on his shoulder when they stopped at a crosswalk. He stood protectively over the Italian. It would appear that despite the growth spurt, he still felt compelled to watch over Machiavelli.

The teenager sighed ever so slightly, but didn't argue anymore. Billy glanced over at him. "We can at least update your wardrobe a little bit," he finally conceded. "No full on suits, though. Just some dress shirts and maybe a blazer."

The Italian nodded a little. "I can live with that. Are we going to go shopping now?"

Billy gestured to the now full grocery cart. "Let's drop these off at home and then we can go out again after lunch. We need to pick up some stuff to make the house livable. Sound good?" At Machiavelli's acceptance, he took off again. "Great. And I was thinking, you just turned 18. We should go out tonight, do something we couldn't do when you were a kid."

"Like what?" Machiavelli asked, trailing behind him.

"I was thinking we could go to a bar," Billy said, looking back at him. He assessed him critically, not stepping off the sidewalk, even when the walk signal turned white for them. Machiavelli slipped his arm in the other man's and led him across. "What do you think?" Billy asked, letting the Italian guide him.

"The drinking age is 21 in this country, unless I'm wrong," Machiavelli mused, dropping the other man's arm when they were on the other side. He glanced at Billy. "You know that."

"If we went to a bar, we'd have to use one of the fake ids that Nick packed, which isn't a big deal." Machiavelli nodded, figuring as Billy did that they were both way over the drinking age. "Is that where you want to go tonight?" Billy asked, stopping to look at him. Machiavelli considered it, weighing his options. It would be nice to do something completely adult again. He nodded again after a moment's pause. "Okay, should be fun," Billy said happily.

"But now you definitely have to bring me shopping this afternoon. And you've got to get better clothes too."

Billy looked offended, as per usual. "What's wrong with how I dress?"

"Well, you'd be alright if we were going to a cowboy bar," Machiavelli assessed, glancing at his companion. "But since we're in a city now, it'd be nice to see you in pants that aren't made of denim for once." He smirked, hearing the quiet hiss from the American immortal in front of him. He followed Billy up their front steps, helping to pull the cart up behind them and hanging on to it when Billy rooted around for the correct key again.

"We've got to get you a key of your own," Billy mumbled, pulling the right key off of the enormous key chain and putting it on the smaller key chain with his car keys. "Remind me to go to a locksmith this afternoon."

"I'll remind you after we go shopping," Machiavelli said happily, pulling out their groceries. He left the parmesian and gruyere cheese on the counter, but handed Billy the loaf of French bread. "I'll make lunch today. You slice this into 2.5 cm slices."

Billy took the bread, but looked confused. "How much is 2.5 cm? Isn't that kind of thin for sandwiches?"

Machiavelli closed his eyes and counted to five. "It's an inch exactly."

"Stupid metric system," Billy grumbled, searching in the knife drawer for a bread knife. And in an even lower voice, "Jimmy Carter trying to mess up a good thing." He pulled out the correct knife at last. Slicing into the bread, he began to whistle. "You know, Mac," he called, waving the knife slightly. "One year I was living here, I brought home a Christmas tree that I might have underestimated the size of. It was like, this big," he stretched his arms out. "And it was scratching the ceiling of the living room, so I had to trim it down. Problem was, I didn't have saw of any kind in the house. Want to guess which knife I used to take off the top?"

Machiavelli looked up from where he was grating cheese. "Oh, Billy, you didn't."

The Kid grinned. "Did, too. Don't worry, Mac, unlike Black Hawk, I actually wash my dishes." He glanced down at the bread in front of him. "Did you want me to cut the whole loaf? Cause I kind of just did."

The Italian immortal was looking through the cabinets, trying to find a baking sheet. "That's fine. I assumed you'd be having a couple of sandwiches anyways."

"I'm a growing boy," Billy told him, opening a drawer beneath the stove that Machiavelli would have never noticed. He grabbed one of the cookie pans on top and set it on the counter.

"You're growing sideways," Machiavelli countered, getting the butter out of the fridge. He handed it to his companion and moved over to the stove to make his white sauce. He moved aside to let Billy put the bread into the stove. Glancing at his watch, he factored ahead a few minutes. Lightly, he slapped Billy's hand the third time the American immortal moved in to steal some of his cheese. "Soon, you'll be eating just a ham sandwich because you ate all the cheese." He looked at his watch again and pulled out the baking sheet. Setting it to the side, he swatted again at Billy, who had taken another pinch of cheese while the Italian was distracted.

"Now that the bread's toasted, you want me to put the Dijon mustard on?" Billy asked, trying to appear helpful. He chewed on one of the end pieces of bread.

"If you think you can refrain from eating it all," Machiavelli said drily and the outlaw laughed. The sauce being done, he set it aside and got out the slices of ham they'd gotten that morning. "Are we going to do this every day?" he asked Billy.

"Make ham and cheese sandwiches? Might get old after a while," Billy joked.

Niccolò smacked him, the corners of his mouth turning up. "Go shopping for our meals every day."

Billy took the ham from him. "We should probably get some stuff to have on hand, just in case, but otherwise I don't see why not. We're not exactly employed right now, except for trying to stay alive." He looked down at the sandwiches. "Can we eat now?" he asked hopefully.

"No, we have to put them in the broiler for about five minutes." Billy looked very disappointed, so Machiavelli tried to distract him. "We didn't get anything for dinner?"

"I'm going to take you out to eat," Billy said loudly, over the sound of his stomach rumbling. He rubbed at his stomach self-consciously. "Before we go to the bar. It'll help you not get as drunk, if we put food in you right before hand." He looked at the timer on the stove expectantly. Niccolò had to stifle a laugh when he face dropped considerably. Billy pulled himself together. "You'll have fun at the club tonight. I'm going to bring you dancing."

"We'll be dancing together?" Machiavelli asked, quirking his lips. He smiled at the outlaw to let him know he was joking, but held out his hands expectantly.

Billy took his left hand, settling a hand on the taller immortal's hip. He grinned goofily at Niccolò. "Course! All the ladies are going to want to dance with yours truly," Machiavelli snorted, "but I'll break all of their hearts tonight. I'll only have eyes for you," he promised solemnly and Machiavelli felt a shiver go up his spine. "What about you, Mac? Are you going to dip me?" Machiavelli bit his lower lip, smiling at the American. He shook his head. "Nards," Billy cussed cheerfully, letting go of the other man as the timer went off. He got the pan out, managing to burn the tip of one of his fingers in the process. Sucking on his digit, he put the pan on the side of the stove that hadn't been in use.

"You've got to be more careful," Machiavelli told him, getting out two plates and a spatula. "Don't burn your mouth," he cautioned Billy, afraid that the man was going to attack the sandwich in his haste.

Billy looked absolutely dejected. "You mean, I still can't eat it?" He looked forlornly at his plate, then back at Niccolò.

Machiavelli rubbed his neck with some sympathy and offered him an apple instead. Billy took it from him, took a huge bite, and offered it back to the Italian who graciously declined. He watched Billy eat the apple with the same disbelief that he normally felt, watching his companion shove half of the apple in his mouth and somehow, take a bite without choking. "Probably now," he said after the outlaw was done, pulling part of the crust off of his and nibbling on it.

True to form, Billy practically flew onto the sandwich, getting cheese on his nose, but seeming very happy. "From now on, you should do the cooking, Mac," he told the tactician. "I'll just be the pretty face." Machiavelli snorted and shook his head. "Yeah, that's true. You're probably prettier than I am, all things considering. And I need to have a use, or you'll get rid of me."

They began to squabble about which one was better looking, Machiavelli highlighting his classical countenance while Billy tried to promote his rugged Western exterior. Niccolò laughed for a solid five minutes after Billy tried to claim washboard abs as one of his many attributes.

"I couldn't get rid of you," Machiavelli finally concluded, delicately eating. "You'd keep finding your way back." But he was pleased that Billy liked his cooking. He was surprised that he still knew how to cook at all. He rarely had cooked for himself in the past couple of centuries, preferring to eat at taverns and bars long ago, and from restaurants and take-out places in the past couple of years. Adding to that, he'd not eaten as much due to the problems with his tastebuds, and he was very surprised that he remembered anything from his youth about cooking. "My mother taught me to cook. She felt that I should be able to take care of myself, even if I did get married."

"Smart lady." Having finished both of his sandwiches, he leaned sleepily on Machiavelli's shoulder. Occasionally, the Italian would break off small pieces and feed it to him.


	90. Chapter 90

Machiavelli was happy to be in the department store; Billy was not.

The first marked difference between the two men in their adult years was beginning to show itself once more. Machiavelli could easily spend days (and lots of money) clothes shopping, while the outlaw was far more content to hold a pair of jeans up, estimate its fit, and toss it in the cart.

Still, with some convincing, Niccolò got Billy into the changing room with a dozen articles of clothing to try on. The only one to which he seemed to take an immediate liking was a leather cycle jacket, tan and fitted. He scoffed at the v-neck shirt Machiavelli tossed in after him, but obliged him by trying it on. Waiting outside the changing room, the Italian immortal picked out a couple of new belts and moving down the display, getting some ties for the two of them to share.

"I thought you were against me wearing denim," Billy said, coming out after a goodly amount of time and dumping the clothing back into the cart. "You gave me jeans still."

"Call it a compromise. At least these are new," Machiavelli commented. He made Billy try on a vest and ended up putting two in the cart.

"I thought we were shopping for clothing for you?" Billy said, following Machiavelli through the men's department. "Can I get this?" he asked, holding up a shirt that was red checkered on one side and gray stripes on the other.

Niccolò shook his head at the last article. "The clothes for me are on this side," he said, indicating the overflowing cart. "But I figured you'd pick out the clothes for me for tonight," he added, sounding a little worried. "I wouldn't know what to wear in that setting."

"I'm kind of liking this devil may care look you've got going now," Billy said, tugging on the other man's tie. "I take full credit for this, by the way."

"For what?"

"You. Wearing a tie that's not cutting off your windpipe. You in jeans. A lot of things. I'm good at getting you to lighten up. But I'm really no help for picking out clothes," Billy pointed out reasonably. "In the past when I've gone to clubs, people just go about halfway." Machiavelli quirked his eyebrows at that most unhelpful description and waited for him to elaborate. Billy leaned on a display, thinking deeply. "Well, you don't want to be dressed up like you're going to a business meeting, but you don't want to look like you just rolled out of bed either." He scratched his face. "Here, we'll get you a light blazer. Trust me, we're not going to want to go through the coat check."

"Why not?" Machiavelli asked curiously, picking out a light gray blazer with the sleeves rolled up. He tried it on over his street clothes- it fit snuggly. He got a pair of slightly darker gray dress pants. Billy followed him around, touching the clothes as they passed them. Passing the display of ties again, Billy snagged an electric blue tie and tossed it in. "Are you going to be wearing a tie tonight?" Machiavelli asked, confused, as they progressed to the shoe section.

"Nah, it's for you," Billy responded. At the Italian's prompting, the Kid picked out one pair of black shoes. Machiavelli on the other hand got five pairs of shoes, in his old shoe size, glad to have finally grown back to where he was before. "Just how much did you make being that French security guard?" Billy asked in amazement as they finally headed towards the front of the store.

"I was head of the national security division, and quite a bit. I'd been employed there for a number of years too, without using much of my funding." Machiavelli spoke rapidly and in French. "It would take quite a bit of work to drain my bank account."

"Well, you're certainly making a good effort," Billy said back, also speaking French. He grinned at the counter clerk. "Hello," he greeted the older woman, switching back to English. He began dumping clothing on the counter which turned out to be quite the process. "We did find everything we needed to, thanks."

"It's a good thing you drove over in the car," Machiavelli said as they left. He hoisted their half a dozen bags into the trunk and climbed into the passenger side seat.

"I saw you coming," Billy told him, getting behind the wheel. "I knew before we got out of here, we'd have half the store. Let's go home, you can put on whatever you're wearing and then we'll go out to dinner. It's surprisingly late. We spent longer in the store than I thought." He navigated the city streets with remarkable ease, bringing them through several neighborhoods before they began to pass houses that Machiavelli recognized again.

At the house, Machiavelli had to work hard to cajole Billy into one of the newer sets of clothing they'd gotten for him. He had to work piece by piece, starting with the leather jacket they'd gotten him and coaxing him into the other pieces of clothing until finally he had an entire outfit put together. To maintain their respective privacies, it took them a little longer with each of them taking turns changing in the bathroom off their bedroom.

Finally, they were ready to head out for the night. Heading down the front steps, Machiavelli headed for the garage, instinctively going to sit in the car, but was surprised when Billy walked past the garage. "We're not taking the car?" he asked in surprise, trotting after Billy. The Kid shook his head and explained to him how everywhere they were going was within a good walking distance. He let Machiavelli pick out their restaurant, pointing out the options as they walked down the road.

Machiavelli came to a halt looking at his options. Eventually, he picked what looked to be a nice sit down restaurant. He waited for Billy to go in first, then followed him as their waitress led them toward one of the booths by the window. "So, you think you're going to have fun?" Billy asked, sitting across from Machiavelli at the table. He unrolled his napkin, tossing it messily across his lap.

Machiavelli looked back at him from where he'd been looking out the window. "I hope so," he said, trying to keep the nervousness out of his voice. As it got closer to the time they would be heading over there, he'd gotten quieter, worrying that he'd made the wrong decision in agreeing to go. Clubs were very loud places and while he enjoyed socializing with Billy and the other immortals, he had a feeling he wasn't a good match for a club full of twenty-something aged individuals.

"I won't leave you alone unless you want me to," Billy broke in, startling him out of his thoughts. Something of his worrying must have shown on his face. He nodded thoughtfully, grateful that Billy seemed to read him so well. "Besides, Mac, maybe you'll meet a nice girl," he teased.

Machiavelli shook his head. "I sincerely doubt that."

"Aw, why not, Mac? You're a good looking guy. I bet you'll be beating the ladies off of you with a stick," Billy said good-naturedly, scanning the menu. He ducked closer to the Italian, speaking in a lower register. "Why don't you have a good time tonight? People go to clubs looking for fun."

It took Niccolò a minute to understand what the other immortal was saying and when he did, he shook his head violently, blushing lightly. "Not for me. Are you going to, I mean," he fumbled with his words, "are you?"

"Not planning to, no," Billy said without reservation. "I'm just saying, don't hold back on my account." They both got quiet at the approach of their waitress. Greeting her, Billy put in his order first, as usual ordering more food than a human should normally eat. Machiavelli ordered a far more reasonable amount, though he did wheedle an appetizer out of the man paying for the meal.

After she left, Billy tossed a card over to Machiavelli. "Before I forget, take this. It'll look better if I'm not the one holding it."

Machiavelli picked it up and looked over at Billy. "This is the fake id that's going to get me in tonight?" he queried, slipping into French again in an attempt to disguise what he was saying. He held it up. The ID looked to him like a piece of cardstock with a stick figure drawn on one side and his name printed on the other. "This is what Nick gave you? Is he crazy?"

"It's got a charm on it, Mac. You're see it as it is cause you can see through enchantments," Billy explained, a wide smile on his face. "Try ordering a drink with it. You'll see." Machiavelli gave him a suspicious glance, but flagged down their waitress the next time she passed by them. He ordered a glass of wine, handing her the card and feeling ridiculous, but she studied it for a moment and gave it back to him, promising him that she'd bring back the drink soon. He put the card in his wallet, shaking his head. "Cool, right?" Billy asked, grabbing his hand and giving it a small shake.

"Well, you never fail to amaze me," Machiavelli allowed.

"Good," Billy said, leaning back when the waitress brought their appetizer. They thanked her and waited until she was two tables down. "I'm glad we still don't know each other too well. It would be bad otherwise."

"Why's that good?" Machiavelli asked curiously, snagging one of the mozzarella sticks. He took the marinara sauce, knowing Billy didn't like it very much. He was slightly offended that Billy didn't think they knew each other well. He felt like he knew some things that even Black Hawk wouldn't have necessarily known.

"Well, we have to have something to talk about," Billy pointed out, proving once again that he thought circuitously. "We spend all day together. It's not like at dinner time I can say, 'what did you do today?'. I know what you did today. I did it with you." He leaned forward and stole a sip of the Italian's wine. "Of course, I could always ask you what you thought of or if you had fun, but it's nice to find out things too. It's like a puzzle we're putting together, only we don't know how many pieces there are."

"That makes it hard to look for the edge pieces," Machiavelli observed, extending the simile. "Well, we'll have something to talk about after tonight." Billy nodded, telling him about one particularly fun experience he'd had at a club back in the 1920s. He stole his wine back from the other side of the table, listening to the outlaw describe the differences between now and then. He was very grateful that smoking wasn't allowed indoors anymore, as it sounded like a club occupant couldn't necessarily see one side of the room from the other. "Here's our food," he said at last, seeing not one but two waitresses approaching their table with trays. "You got so much food," he said, sounding exasperated.

"I'm hungry."

"You're always hungry."

The good thing about Billy always ordering so much food was that Machiavelli could sample the menu, making each restaurant experience a sort of private buffet experience. He wondered how Billy remained so trim, especially after watching him shovel half a piece of chicken parm in his mouth. He was pretty sure that Billy would live off of carbs if he could and yet the young man always looked so lanky. It was an enviable trait, to say the least.

He protested ever so slightly when Billy offered to buy him a desert, citing the added calories from the alcohol they'd been consuming as reason enough to stay away from any extra additions to their meal.

After the restaurant, they walked back to the apartment, Billy carrying the bag with the leftovers in his left hand. His other hand he kept jammed in his right pocket and Machiavelli was sure that despite the American's laidback nature, he was keeping a hand firmly on his keys. "So, we're going to the club after this?" the Italian asked him just to break the silence.

"Yeah, unless there's something you need to do," Billy said decisively as they walked through the front door. Machiavelli shook his head, feelings of nervousness and excitement bubbling inside of him. He watched the outlaw push the bag into their otherwise empty fridge and leaned on the counter, waiting for him. "Alright, then let's go," Billy said, smiling at the other immortal.

"Are we walking to the club, too?" Machiavelli asked as they stepped outside. He looked up at the moon just beginning to clear the tops of the skyscrapers. He sniffed. The air smelt like burning leaves.

"I was thinking we'd do that," the Kid said, grabbing his shoulder to lead him in the right direction. "That way we don't have to leave it if we drink too much. And the club's not too far away. Couple of streets maybe." He set off at a steady pace, his vigor matched perfectly with Machiavelli's long strides. "Don't worry, we're sticking to the good part of town. Which can be admittedly small at times," he allowed cheerfully. "If we went the other way, we'd hit a bad neighborhood about six blocks down, at least if things have stayed the same from what I remember." He turned down a side road and cut across the street, Machiavelli keeping close to his side.

"You'll stay with me?" Machiavelli asked again.

"Until you get sick of me," Billy promised. "Here we are." They came upon a hole in the wall kind of place, much different from the deli that they'd been in earlier. A sign in blazing letters spelled out a rather tongue in cheek name for the club. The two outlaws stepped behind a line of people, pretty evenly split between men and women which Billy told him was a good thing, or they'd have more trouble getting in. "All these clubs would rather let in women," he explained, stretching onto his toes to see over some heads, "cause where women are, the men follow."

"We passed a club last night when we got in that had all men in the line," Machiavelli remembering how he'd been briefly woken up when they first entered the city, almost feeling the bright lights from the raucous sign again. "The sign woke me up…"

"I'm pretty sure that was a gay bar, Mac," Billy said quietly in his ear. "Otherwise, I'd like to think there'd be one or two women in the general area." They stepped forward again. Billy tilted his head and spoke out of the corner of his mouth. "You're going to be carded for sure."

"Think so?"

They stepped up to the bouncer. He scrutinized Machiavelli for half a second and then, as Billy predicted, demanded an ID. "Young boy like you trying to get in the club?" he asked, tutting, _he actually tutted_, and holding out his hand for Machiavelli's card. His reaction got a lot of laughter from Billy, who tried to arrange his face into a carefully puzzled expression. Machiavelli held out the card that the American immortal had given him, feeling like a fool. The bouncer kept it for a solid minute, studying it as if he couldn't believe it. Niccolò, getting nervous, bounced impatiently on the soles of his feet. Finally, he was handed his card back. "Alright, go on in," the bouncer grunted, looking like he would have been happier to have sucked a lemon.

"Never mind him," Billy said with some glee, pulling Machiavelli behind him. "Those people are always grumpy, they deal with a lot of people trying to sneak in," he shouted over the sudden influx of music, looking gleefully radiant. "Do you want another drink before we go on the dance floor?" he yelled over the music. "I'll buy!"

"Sure," Machiavelli said back, though he couldn't be sure the Kid heard him. The crowd around them seemed to swallow the noise whole. He jerked his head in the direction of the bar, trying not to stare at two girls, obviously very drunk and hanging on to each other. A small crowd of men surrounded them and he had to push down his more paternal instinct that was shouting at him to intervene.

Also skirting around a couple more people who were very much into the dance, Billy ordered for both of them when they got to the bar. Machiavelli wasn't sure what the American handed him, but trusted him enough to take a sip without asking. The resulting concoction nearly knocked him off his feet. The American immortal had got him a shot of straight whiskey. Niccolò coughed, feeling like he'd burned his throat.

Billy had already struck up a conversation with the man next to them. Machiavelli tried to listen in, feeling a bit lost in the crowd, but couldn't hear even this man three feet away from him over the surrounding din. He was just thinking of how he could slip away when he felt Billy's hand on his shoulder. The outlaw gave a slight squeeze and he relaxed slightly, still sipping from the strong drink. Between this and the wine he'd had earlier, he could feel himself losing some control, something he hoped would help him navigate this room.

Next to him, Billy ended the conversation, swigged the last of his drink and set it on the bar behind them. _He seemed remarkably clear headed, considering he had just downed a shot, but then again, he hadn't had the same amount of wine as I did earlier_, Machiavelli thought. Pulling the Italian into the melee, Billy leaned in as close as he could to the other immortal's ear and shouted, "let's find you someone to dance with, Mac." Plunging into the crowd, the Kid soon pulled aside a very pretty girl, talked to her for a moment and then pulled Machiavelli forward. Introducing the two of them, he patted Machiavelli on the shoulder. "I told her how shy you are, Mac. She promised she'd play nice." He smiled and indicated that he'd be in the area.

Alone now, Machiavelli grinned shyly at the girl, who introduced herself as Becky. She smiled back at him, pulling him closer so that they could dance. In between songs, she told him a little more about herself and asked after him. During the songs, it was too loud to talk, but she did show him how to dance like the other people in the crowd, something he found quaintly absurd.

He was a little disappointed when her friends pulled her away to go to a new club. She'd seemed very nice, and more understanding about his nervousness than he suspected anybody else would in this place.

After her, he danced with three other girls, at one point two at a time. He was surprised by their interest in him, reflecting that he was in a much younger body right now. Still, he hadn't remembered being so interesting to women when he'd first been this age. He shook it off as a change in the way men and women interacted. Still, part of him wondered what these women were looking for, and for that matter, what he was looking for himself.

Billy seemed to have things more in hand, he reflected, at one point passing the American immortal. He's somehow managed to find a girl with a cowboy hat and was getting awfully friendly with her at the front of the dance floor. It was like a drinking game to the Italian immortal. Every time he saw Billy with another girl, he took another shot. The increased flow of liquor helped loosen him up.

A couple hours in, he looked around the room, trying to find Billy. Circulating a little, he found the American immortal dancing with a red head. He felt a curious twist in his stomach, watching the two interact.

Deciding the Kid was too busy for him, Machiavelli went to the bar and ordered another drink. He downed this quicker than the last one, feeling the pleasant sensation of warmth enter his head and descend down the rest of his body. He got back on the dance floor and caught the eye of a taller girl, woman, he corrected himself. He made his way over to her, smiling in a much more self-assured way than he had before, the alcohol lowering his inhibitions. Still, he was rather surprised when she stood on her tiptoes to kiss him. His mind went blank with shock; she giggled and put his hands on her hips. She grabbed him, dragging him further onto the floor.

He tried to tell her his name, but he couldn't be sure that she was listening. His attempts to find out her name were deflected; she did her best to distract him in between songs. When she went in for another kiss, he leaned back slightly, making it seem like a casual movement, a mistake even, but it wasn't. His head spun a little. This was more than he had bargained for. He looked up blindly, his tall stature letting him see over more heads than the average person would have been able to. Billy was his North Star; locating him in an instant.

The Kid was moving towards the corner with the redhead from before, another one of her friends trailing behind them. He wasn't sure what the American was going to do but he knew that he wouldn't like it. The blood rushing to his head, he did something that later he might consider very stupid- he leaned down and passionately met the lips of his brunette companion, gripping her around the waist. This was apparently the sign she'd been looking for; all the sexual tension she'd been alluding to for the past hour rushed through. He gasped into the kiss when she groped him through his clothes and he leaned his head back.

One small voice of reason told him that he was severely drunk at this point and should probably stop, but another part kept goading him forward. He took a chance and moved his hands from where they'd been resting on her hips to cup her breasts instead. She pressed into his hands, pulling the shirt down further, as if he needed to see more.

His companion was clearly in more control of the situation than he was. She pulled him off the dance floor and ducked into a darker corner of the bar where she pushed him into a seat. Kneeling in front of him, she opened his pants and manually stimulated him, alternatively sucking on her fingers and pulling on him.

Machiavelli let her have her way, seeing stars. All of his teenager hormones came rushing to the surface and he was momentarily overwhelmed.

Looking over at the booth next to them, he saw a girl sitting on the lap of a man. She was clearly not aware of what she was doing, but then neither was the man. At last, Machiavelli saw a moment of clarity, realizing that this wasn't where he wanted to be. He looked down the woman in front of him. Catching her before she did anything further, he gently pulled her to her feet. "Sorry," he said awkwardly. "You're a nice girl. You deserve better than this. I'm, ah, I'm going to find my friend."

Hastily shutting his pants, he ducked through the crowd, looking for Billy. He wasn't sure what he'd do if the outlaw was as occupied as he'd been about to be, but he figured he could beg the American to bring him home.

Machiavelli wedged himself between two groups of revelers in his haste to get over to the American. The Kid was leaning on the bar not too far away from where he'd been, sans any companion, and Niccolò had to wonder how much the other immortal had seen. _Not much_, he sincerely hoped. "Billy!" he had to yell to hear himself over the music. The Kid looked up at him, a hesitant smile crossing his face. Leaning into the other man's space in order to be heard, he spoke into the other man's ear. "I'd like to go home now, unless you want to stay?"

Billy slid off of the stool he'd been sitting on. "Nah, I've had enough myself," he yelled back. Grabbing the Italian's hand, he pushed his way through the dancers, heading in the direction of the door.

It was a relief to be outside in the relative quiet once more. Behind them, the music pulsed in the night air, but at a severely decreased level. "Ah, it's raining now," Machiavelli said, glancing out from under the cover of the door awning.

"We're close to home. It'll take longer trying to flag down a taxi than it would to get back there ourselves. Let's make a run for it," Billy told him. Grabbing his hand, he pulled the European immortal behind him into the pelting rain. They sped down the sidewalks, laughing as they got soaked. Water kicked up from all sides, effectively drenching their backs. When Billy finally stopped in front of their home, Machiavelli ran into him, not expecting to make it back that quick.

Before either of them could fall down, the outlaw grabbed hold of him and steadied himself. Caught below a streetlamp, he grinned at the taller man, water dripping down both of their faces. Machiavelli could smell the beer on his breath, they were standing so close, and he was reminded of how drunk he was himself, reminded that they'd both been drinking a lot that night. "Easy," Billy said, keeping a hand on his elbow, and for a moment, Machiavelli thought the Kid had somehow become privy to his racing thoughts. But, he hadn't. "Did you have fun tonight?"

Machiavelli thought about it, considered it, and nodded. He did have fun, despite some of the less than enjoyable parts of the night. "I enjoyed it more than I thought I would. And you seemed like you were having fun." He grinned and tilted his head. More than anything he wanted to kiss Billy. _But that wasn't very wise_, he thought ruefully, finally getting a handle on his emotions. "We should probably head in the house now."

Billy nodded. _Was that something like regret in his eyes? _Machiavelli wondered just as the Kid turned away. He found himself shaking his head, feeling half stupefied. _I'm probably imagining things_, he thought to himself, rubbing his hands together now that they were back in the house.

The first thing the outlaw did when he was in the house was take off his jacket. The difference between the exposed area and the rest of his t-shirt was almost laughable. Half of the shirt was soaked; the rest was fine. Billy pulled the shirt off and left it hanging on the baluster on the second floor. Machiavelli stopped long enough to toe out of his shoes and socks before fumbling up the stairs behind Billy.

"We're pretty goddamn wet, aren't we?" Billy asked, glancing at him tipsily from the top landing. Having snagged a towel from the bathroom on the first floor, he tousled his hair dry and proceeded to dry off his back. He waited, leaning on the railing as Niccolò made his way up the steps at a much slower rate.

Machiavelli nodded, finally reaching the top of the staircase and leading them into their shared bedroom. He loosened his tie as he went. "Did you know you swear more when you're drunk? Anyways, I'm surprised you came home with me," he admitted openly, cutting his eyes over to where Billy was fumbling with his boots. "I saw that girl with the red hair. I'm surprised you didn't go home with her."

"She was pretty," Billy agreed, finally managing to get the other boot off. "But tonight was about celebrating with you. It's not often you turn 18." His eyes crinkled. "How often does that happen? Once, twice… And you were with a girl, at the end. Looked like you were getting pretty copacetic with her and I thought-"

Machiavelli cut him off suddenly, pushing him against the wall. Without thinking about what he was doing, he tilted his head so that their noses wouldn't bang into each other. Their lips met and Machiavelli was kissing him, he couldn't think about what he was doing, all he could think about was the taste of alcohol on the other's lips. The outlaw took a deep breath, stealing air from the darker haired immortal's lungs. Maybe it was the lack of oxygen, but Machiavelli was spurned to do more. He let his tongue explore Billy's mouth, coming into contact with Billy's, and for a solid minute they wrestled for control of the kiss. They broke apart, staring into each other's eyes. "Billy," Niccolò breathed, not sure if he'd made the worst mistake of his life.

The Kid snagged him by his tie and used it to draw him close again. He tilted his head, hesitant, and captured the other's lips once more in small kisses, these more tender. "Guess you're not a kid, anymore," he mumbled in between the points of contact, grinning into the kiss.

Mac tangled his hands in Billy's long locks, relief crashing over him. "Told you that," he mumbled. His hands dipped lower, feeling up the outlaw's backside and moving steadily downward. Finally, he moved his hands into the back pockets of Billy's jeans, pulling his wallet out and tossing it away in frustration. He squeezed tightly, eliciting the same breathless reaction that he had gotten from Billy before. He kept exploring, undoing the outlaw's belt and then jeans, and pushed them down, all the while, locked in another deep French kiss.

Deciding to get this show on the road, Machiavelli pulled Billy away from the wall and towards the bed. As soon as his calves hit the mattress, Billy sat down primly. He scooted back on the bed, drawing Machiavelli along by the tie until finally, he was lying down with the Italian immortal straddling his hips. "How is it, that I'm half naked now and you're still dressed?" Billy slurred, his blue-green eyes staring into Machiavelli's gray.

"I'm just that good." Machiavelli said back cheekily, momentarily leaning back to glance at the man's body below him. Niccolò worked his way down Billy's torso, exploring the man's bare chest. He moved lower, nipping the American's left nipple with his teeth ever so slightly and glanced up. Billy's eyes were half lidded. He moved to the other side. Billy let out a groan, which he took as encouragement.

This was all moving very fast, considering. He leaned back on his haunches, glancing down at the area where their bodies were currently touching. Billy was still in his briefs and Machiavelli shifted backwards, thinking that he'd like to pull them down. A soft snore interrupted his very scattered thoughts. "Oh, Billy, no," he moaned, scrambling up to see his face. "Wake up, Billy. This is a horrible time to fall asleep." He tapped Billy's nosed expectantly, but it was to no avail. The American had definitely fallen asleep. "So close," he whimpered, rolling off of the outlaw and heading for the bathroom.

Turning on the water, it took several minutes and a very concentrated effort on his part to calm his body down again. The cold water also served to sober him up considerably, forcing him to consider what he had just done. Climbing carefully into bed later, he gazed at the ceiling above them. "What happened?" And outside, the rain still poured down.

* * *

AN: So that's it, hope you liked it. I will be writing a sequel, but I wanted to really separate Machiavelli's younger years with the more adult material coming down the turnpike. Keep an eye out for the sequel, it will be under the title "The Outlaw and the Tactician" or some variant of that. Cheers!


	91. Chapter 91

AN: Probably should have mentioned this before now, but the sequel is up. You can find it under "The Outlaw and the Tactician." Let me know how I'm doing~ thanks, Lilacs and Monarda


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